


When the Dust Settles (I'll Still Love You)

by mysecretashes



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Barebacking, Blow Jobs, Canon Divergence, Dubious Consent, First Time, Frottage, Fuck Or Die, Happy Ending, Kidnapping, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Pining, Rimming, Violence, mild D/s themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-14
Updated: 2013-03-14
Packaged: 2017-12-05 07:34:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/720481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysecretashes/pseuds/mysecretashes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles had imagined his first time many different ways, but never like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the Dust Settles (I'll Still Love You)

**Author's Note:**

> So I wrote this way back in November, when I was in the middle of marathoning all the episodes and reading all the fic and having ALL THE FEELS. Because of this, there are certain characters that appear who won't be in S3. :( (Which is also the reason for the Canon Divergence tag.) Set in the nebulous ~future, with no spoilers for S3.
> 
> Beta'd by filmatleven, who is the awesomest.

The powder is bright red, which should be Stiles' first clue.

At the time, however, he's slightly distracted by his efforts to get the fuck away from the crazy-ass witch with her claws an inch deep in his upper arm and also not get in the way of the very angry werewolf with his teeth bared. It all happens so fast – one second Derek is fifteen feet away, the next he's ripping (literally, oh my god _ow_ ) Stiles free, and then they both have a face full of red powder.

Stiles gasps automatically, inhaling and then spluttering and coughing because seriously, no air. The powder clings to him, settling thickly on his skin, and the most coherent thoughts he has are something along the lines of _what the fuck_ and _oh, look, it matches the blood trickling down my arm_. Derek doesn't seem very affected, which is no surprise and also not fucking fair, and is busy making sure the witch can never terrorize anyone ever again.

Stiles scrunches his eyes shut and turns away, because no, seeing someone's throat ripped out is not something he will ever get used to. 

"You okay?" Derek asks, and it's only because Stiles knows him that he hears the hesitance in his voice.

"Yeah." Stiles swallows, shakes his head. "No. My arm hurts. And this powder shit is making me itch."

Derek steps into view, claws and teeth retracted but a hint of red still in his eyes. A faint shimmer on his neck and face is the only evidence that he's also been hit by whatever the witch threw at them. He scans Stiles from head to foot, likely using his super werewolfy senses to make sure he really is okay.

"Let's go," he finally says. "The others should be back by now, and Deaton can patch up your arm and maybe tell us what this stuff is."

*

By the time they reach the clinic Stiles thinks he's going to crawl out of his skin. It feels tight and confining, stretched over bone and muscle like it no longer fits. The itch is constant now, almost burning, and from the way Derek's jaw is clenched and his hands are balled into tight fists, he isn't as unaffected as it previously seemed.

"Is she dead?" Scott asks the second they walk through the door, Erica, Isaac, and Boyd all crowding close behind him. The witch had been terrorizing each of them for weeks with nightmares and hallucinations, slamming the images into their heads whenever she pleased and making it impossible for them to fight her. Derek and Stiles had been the only two she couldn't get to, for whatever reason, so it had been they who tracked her to the cave she had been living in deep in the woods.

Stiles still isn't sure why she hadn't been able to get to him and Derek, but at this point he really doesn't give a fuck.

Derek grunts out a non-answer to Scott and pushes his way through his pack, dragging Stiles along behind him.

"Extremely," Stiles calls back as they pass, and can almost feel the tension release from the four of them.

Deaton is in his office, fully engrossed in some old-looking book, but he looks up when Derek barges through the door, pulling Stiles around and making him squawk as he tries to keep from tripping over his own feet.

"Jesus Christ, Derek, I can actually walk on my own –"

"What is this?" Derek interrupts, shoving Stiles' arm at Deaton's face, and wow, rude on so many levels.

Deaton raises his eyebrows but doesn't comment, leaning forward to try and get a better look at the red, shimmering powder. "Where did this come from?"

"The witch threw it at both of us," Stiles answers, shifting uncomfortably. "And honestly, it's driving me so insane I want to scratch my skin off, but I've also got five very painful puncture wounds in my arm and no freaky healing powers, so if I could have some medical attention that would be great."

Deaton frowns. "You both have this on you?"

Derek nods sharply and Stiles scowls, because didn't he _just say that_?

"Have a seat," Deaton says, and stands to turn and start looking through the numerous books on his bookshelves.

Stiles sighs and drops down into one of the chairs; this is going to take a while.

*

He snorts when Derek shakes him awake a few hours later, flailing slightly before he realizes he isn't going to fall out of his chair. His eyes are still heavy with sleep and he blinks, the burn on his skin quickly cutting through the fuzziness to remind him that he probably doesn't want to rub his eyes. He must have been more exhausted than he realized to have actually fallen asleep.

"Wha-" he starts, then pauses to swallow and wet his dry throat before trying again. "What's going on? Did you find something?"

Derek is in the chair next to him, and Deaton is back in his seat behind his desk, a different book open in front of him. They're both frowning and Derek won't meet his eyes, gaze locked on the book Deaton is reading. Something heavy settles in the pit of Stiles' stomach. This can't in any way be good.

"Oh my god, are we going to die?"

It's only half a joke, but he's still surprised when Derek flinches and Deaton looks at him with something close to pity.

"That depends."

Stiles stares at him, not sure he's comprehending those words correctly. He did just wake up. "Depends," he repeats. "On _what_?"

He glances over at Derek and is surprised to see his face pinched into a pained grimace (actually no, that's not surprising at all) and an honest-to-god _blush_ on his cheeks. Deaton clears his throat and Stiles looks back at him, fingers tightening on the arms of his chair. After everything that's happened, it seems unbelievable that he could die from some stupid red powder.

"What the witch threw on the two of you is a magical dust that – well. It causes immense pain – not immediately, as you can probably tell, but it increases over a short period of time – and ultimately death if not taken care of. The only way to reverse the effects and save your life is to –"

He breaks off, looking more uncomfortable than Stiles has ever seen him.

"Is to what?" Stiles demands, staring hard at him. "Bathe in goat's milk? Dance naked under the full moon? Just tell me, I can handle it –"

"We have to fuck," Derek says, voice flat and hard.

Stiles gapes at him. "I'm sorry," he says slowly. "Could you repeat that? Because there is no possible way I heard you correctly."

Derek growls.

"He's telling you the truth, Stiles," Deaton says quietly, and suddenly the heavy weight at the bottom of his stomach explodes into full-out dread.

"But –"

"It's either we have sex or you die," Derek says, and he's still not looking at Stiles. "I won't die, but the pain would just continue getting worse until it drove me insane. And no, before you ask, it can't be with other people. It doesn't work that way."

Stiles wasn't going to ask, actually, but he doesn't say that. "How, uh –" he clears his throat, "how long do we have to – um."

"It needs to be tonight," Deaton answers. "The longer you wait the more pain you'll be in and the less likely you are to…succeed."

"Oh," Stiles whispers, glancing over at Derek again. His fists are clenched, jaw set, shoulders stiff, and Stiles wants to curl up into a ball and die.

Oh, the irony.

Derek suddenly stands, eyes fixed on the far wall. "Is there anything else we should know?"

"Take a shower first," Deaton says, "or you'll be right back in the same situation. The only other thing is that – well. Penetration is necessary and there shouldn't be any, er, barriers. Full contact is the only way to break the spell."

 _No barriers?_ Stiles thinks, confused, but then – 

Oh.

_Oh._

No condoms.

He can feel his face go red, heat traveling up his neck, and this is hands down the most humiliating thing to ever happen to him.

Derek nods curtly at Deaton before turning on his heel and stalking towards the door. "Come on," he snaps at Stiles, and doesn't wait on him before disappearing down the hall.

Stiles moves more slowly, not quite believing this is happening. But his skin is on fire, the itch deeper than it was before, and oh fucking hell, he's going to have to have sex with Derek.

Sex.

With Derek.

"Where are the others?" he asks inanely, his brain immediately trying to shy away from this overwhelming thought.

"Derek sent them home a few hours ago," Deaton answers. "And he patched up your arm while I was searching."

Stiles looks down at his arm in surprise, pulling up the torn sleeve, and yep, a clean white bandage is wrapped around where the witch had been holding him. He can barely feel the tingle of Deaton's special salve on his skin, the burning itch overpowering it.

"Huh," he says.

"Are you going to be okay, Stiles?" Deaton asks, sounding concerned.

Stiles thinks about that before answering. "No," he finally says. "Probably not."

He doesn't say anything else as he turns and walks out, clenching his fists to keep them from shaking.

*

They go to his house, because his father's pulling a late shift and won't be back until the next morning. It's eerily quiet when they walk in, and Stiles curses the way his heart rate suddenly picks up, knowing Derek can hear it. Neither of them has said a word since leaving the clinic, and they both remain silent as Stiles leads the way up the stairs. 

He pauses in front of his bedroom door, staring hard at it, and clears his throat, gesturing toward the bathroom. "You can shower first. I need to, uh –"

He swallows thickly, shakes his head, and nearly runs into his room, shutting the door behind him before Derek can follow. His hand stays tightly wrapped around the knob and he leans his forehead against the wood, closing his eyes and taking slow, deep breaths. There are a few minutes of complete silence, and then he hears the bathroom door shutting and the shower coming on.

"Oh my god," he whispers, not caring if Derek can hear him.

This is a fucking _disaster_. He's imagined losing his virginity a countless number of times – many of those times including Derek – but not like this. He straightens, glaring at his door like it's the one at fault, and sees a faint shimmer of red. Fuck. He's going to have to go back and very carefully clean every fucking little thing he's touched.

By the time Derek steps out of the bathroom – wearing nothing but a towel tied around his waist, holy fucking god – Stiles has cleaned the front door, the stairs, the hall carpet, and his own door. Derek's chest is still damp, hair wet and messy, and Stiles nearly chokes. The itching burn intensifies, and he gasps, weaving where he stands.

"Go," Derek snaps, pointing at the bathroom, and Stiles doesn't argue, dropping his scrub brush and stumbling past him, kicking the door shut. The mirror is fogged over with steam, and all he can smell is his own body wash, which means Derek smells like him. Stiles groans, turning the shower back on and stripping his clothes off, adding them to the pile Derek left on the floor. He'll have to figure out how to wash them later.

The water does nothing to ease the burn, and when he finally shuts the shower off he can't stop shaking. He grabs a towel and dries off as quickly as he can, using it to wipe the knob clean before opening the door, not bothering to wrap it around his waist. _Full contact_ , he thinks, and tries to ignore the bitterness settling at the back of his tongue.

He's about to have sex with Derek, which would be a literal fantasy come true under different circumstances, but right now Stiles just wants to have a life that isn't quite so fucked up.

Derek is in Stiles' room, lying back on his bed, scowling at the ceiling. The towel is on the floor, and Stiles' breath catches in his throat. He slowly pushes his door shut and leans back against it, just staring. There's no possible way Derek doesn't know Stiles is there, but he doesn't react, staying still as Stiles takes in the sight of him naked on the bed.

"Do you, uh –" Stiles stops, clears his throat. "How do you –"

The burn suddenly pierces through his stomach and he cries out, doubling over. Derek is there in an instant, sliding an arm around his waist as his knees give out.

"Oh, fuck," Stiles gasps, vision blurring. "That hurts."

"On the bed," Derek orders, maneuvering them towards it. His voice sounds strained, his skin hot and flushed, and Stiles vaguely wonders if he's in as much pain.

Stiles collapses onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling, fingers twisting into his sheets. This is really happening; Derek is going to fuck him and Stiles will no longer be a virgin, but in the end he won't have anything he actually _wants_.

Well, except for his life, of course.

"Stiles," Derek says, and he sounds almost apologetic. "I wish we could go slow, but –"

"It's fine," Stiles manages, squeezing his eyes shut. "I don't – it's fine."

Derek doesn't say anything but there's a dip in the mattress as he climbs on. He nudges Stiles' knees apart, and then he's leaning down, pressing his nose into the crook of Stiles' hip, breathing in deep. Stiles draws in a sharp breath of his own, his soft cock stirring with interest for the first time since this whole thing started.

"I know this isn't what you want," Derek says against his skin, "but I'm going to try to make you feel good."

Stiles' stomach clenches, and before he can say anything, wet heat surrounds his dick. His hips buck and his eyes fly open, a strangled noise wrenched from his chest. He hardens almost instantly, the sight and feel of Derek's mouth around him the hottest thing in the history of _ever_.

"Fucking –" Stiles gasps, and whines when Derek pins his hips to the bed, sucking as he pulls back.

As soon as he releases him the burn crashes over Stiles, making his entire body jerk, and he realizes that it had faded when he was in Derek's mouth.

"Shit," Derek breathes, flinching visibly.

"As incredible as that was," Stiles says, and then immediately wants to hit himself, "we should probably get on with it –"

"Lube?"

Stiles waves in the general direction of his nightstand, and Derek leans over him to pull open the top drawer. His legs are still spread open, and when Derek's hard dick brushes against his Stiles arches up, hips stuttering and a moan escaping through his clenched teeth. Derek glances down at him, and even though his expression is unreadable, this close Stiles can see how his pupils are blown wide.

Derek sits back, half-empty bottle of lube clutched in one hand. He flips open the top and pours some onto his fingers. Stiles closes his eyes again, wincing as his heart begins to pound wildly.

"Stiles –"

"Sometime before I _actually die_ would be nice," Stiles says, shifting to spread his legs further, ignoring the way his face becomes hotter than the rest of him.

Derek sighs, and then there's a slick finger pushing into him. It feels – really fucking weird, but it doesn't hurt, at least not yet, and Stiles relaxes, letting out a shallow breath. The burn on his skin fades just slightly, and then Derek's adding a second finger, twisting them, pushing in deep. Stiles breathes slow and even, concentrating on staying relaxed. It works, at least until Derek adds a third finger.

"Fuck," Stiles gasps, face scrunching as he tenses.

"Try to relax," Derek says softly, and Stiles does try, he really does, but his legs are shaking and his skin is burning and Derek has three large fingers stretching him open where nobody else has ever been.

It's too much, and Stiles' throat feels tight and achy.

"Stiles, I have to –"

"I know," Stiles says, and barely recognizes his own voice. "You – you can. Go ahead."

Derek pulls his fingers out, and he's slow but Stiles still hisses. He keeps his eyes squeezed tightly closed, hears the lube bottle being opened and closed again, and tightens his fingers where they're still twisted in his sheets. A moment later he feels the head of Derek's dick at his entrance, pressing lightly. He can't stop a whimper from escaping; he's both terrified and excited, his stomach in knots and his hard dick leaking against his skin.

Derek's hands are on his thighs, holding him open, blunt fingers digging into his flesh. "Look at me," he says, and Stiles has to take several deep breaths before he can open his eyes. Derek's eyes are dark, a hint of red behind his pupils, and as soon as Stiles focuses on him he pushes in, steady and sure and slow, not stopping until he's balls deep.

Stiles chokes, one hand coming up to grasp desperately at the pillow beneath his head. Oh god, it _hurts_.

But the itching burn on his skin is fading again, and Jesus fucking Christ, Derek's dick is inside of him. Stiles breathes out sharply through his nose, whining when Derek makes a small roll of his hips.

"Hold on," Derek says, and fuck, his voice sounds _wrecked_. "Just hold on."

There's nothing Stiles can do except wait it out; he keeps his eyes locked onto Derek's, his entire body trembling as it tries to adjust. Derek keeps his hips moving, small, hitching movements giving way to longer, smoother strokes. Finally, the pain starts to fade, and it's still uncomfortable and weird but there's something nice about it too, something that's starting to feel really good.

Derek shifts, and his dick drags over Stiles' prostate.

"Fuck!" Stiles shouts, arching up as his eyes roll back. "Oh my god, do that again."

Derek makes a desperate-sounding noise, and starts pushing in deeper and harder. His pace quickly gets erratic, pulling out almost all the way before slamming back in, over and over until Stiles thinks he can't possibly take any more. The pain has completely disappeared and the burning is almost gone and Stiles is so, so close to coming. Derek's eyes have drifted closed but Stiles can't stop staring, focusing on remembering every detail of this moment.

His dick throbs and he can't wait any longer; he reaches down and strokes himself hard, from tip to base, shuddering. Derek opens his eyes and growls but doesn't stop him, and Stiles can feel where Derek's fingers are more sharp than blunt against his skin. The edge of his orgasm shivers through him, hot and electric at the base of his spine, and when Derek gives a hard snap of his hips Stiles falls, dick pulsing as he comes all over his stomach.

Derek groans, low and rough, throwing his head back. He slams in a few more times before he stills, grinding his hips against Stiles' ass.

"Oh god," Stiles breathes out.

Derek stays like that for a few more moments, and when he finally – slowly – pulls out Stiles can feel the now-faint burning fade completely. No more fire under his skin; it had worked.

Neither of them speak for several minutes, Stiles not sure he could move if he tried and Derek shifting to sit on the edge of the bed. Both of them avoid making eye contact, and Stiles thinks this couldn't possibly be more awkward.

Derek clears his throat. "I need to borrow some clothes."

Oh, what do you know. Things _can_ get more awkward.

"Right," Stiles says faintly, and pushes himself off the bed, trying not to wince. He pulls on a random pair of pajama bottoms lying on the floor and then paws through his dresser until he finds a pair of sweats and a t-shirt that might fit Derek. He tosses them onto the bed and then rubs his hand over his head, staring at the floor. "I'll, uh, just go get your clothes. Put them in a bag or something."

He doesn't wait for Derek's answer, spinning on his heel and booking it out of his room. "Use gloves," he hears Derek call after him, and can't stop a muttered, "Obviously."

When he gets back to his room, trash bag full of Derek's clothes in hand, his heart drops a little at the sight of Derek dressed and waiting by the window. He's not surprised, really, but a small part of him had hoped.

"Here," he says, thrusting the bag at Derek. "I suggest dumping them straight into a washer. Or burning them."

Derek frowns. "Stiles –"

"You should go," Stiles interrupts, not wanting to hear any kind of apology.

Derek's frown deepens and he doesn't move, staring hard at Stiles until he flushes and shifts his gaze to the far wall. There's a few more seconds of silence and then the sound of his window being opened. When he finally looks back, Derek is gone.

Stiles takes a deep, shuddering breath, squeezing his eyes shut and willing his heart to stop racing. He's completely exhausted, both physically and emotionally, but he can't risk this happening again so he forces himself to open his eyes and go finish cleaning the bathroom. He carefully throws his clothes in the wash and then scrubs everything down with bleach, blaming the fumes for the way his eyes sting. At the last minute he remembers the Jeep, and groans as he drags himself outside to clean it too.

When he's finally done he stumbles his way back to his room and falls onto his bed, buries his face in his pillow, and tries not to think about how it smells like Derek.

*

He doesn't answer anyone's calls for the rest of the weekend (they're mostly from Scott anyway), and only texts Scott back with a short _not feeling good, see you on Monday_ because he can't handle the incessant ringing of his phone anymore. He takes probably ten showers, which makes his father give him odd looks, but he has to scrub the smell of Derek off him before going around the rest of the pack again. Whether they know or not, it will make things easier to ignore if he only smells like himself.

On Monday morning he leans against the bathroom sink and stares at himself in the mirror. He doesn't look any different, and if he's honest he doesn't feel much different either, at least physically. Any soreness had completely faded by yesterday, and he knows Derek had been careful not to leave any marks.

"Man up," he tells his reflection. "You lost your virginity to Derek. Maybe the circumstances weren't ideal, but it wasn't like it was torture. He didn't force you to do anything, and it wasn't his fault. He saved your life, and just because he doesn't want more doesn't mean you aren't still friends." He pauses. "Or something vaguely similar, anyway."

There's a knock on the door and Stiles jumps, knocking several things off the sink and onto the floor.

"Stiles?" his father asks. "You alright in there? I thought I heard you talking to someone."

Stiles swears under his breath. "I'm fine," he says, bending down to pick up the mess. "Just, uh. Giving myself a pep talk before school." He winces. "Big test today."

"Okay, well," his father says after a moment, sounding doubtful. "If you need anything you know you can call me anytime."

"I know, Dad," Stiles says. "Have a good day at work."

"Good luck on your test," his dad says, and Stiles holds his breath until he hears the front door close. He slumps down on the floor and bangs his head back against the wall, closing his eyes.

"Get it together, Stiles," he mutters. 

He sits there another few minutes before he makes himself get up and finish getting ready for the day, trying to ignore the hollow ache inside his chest.

*

"Hey," Scott says, joining Stiles as they walk into the school. "You okay? Because of Friday night, I mean, and whatever that stuff was that Derek was freaking out over. What was it, anyway?"

Stiles shrugs. "Not sure," he says, which is technically the truth since Stiles had been sleeping in Deaton's chair at the time, and ignores the other question. "Deaton told us how to get rid of it, though, so it's all good."

"Good," Scott says, and gives him a push. "Scared us all, dude. From the way Derek was acting we thought you were going to die."

Stiles laughs, and tries not to wince at how fake it sounds. "Nope, no dying here. Definitely not dying."

Scott gives him an odd look. "Right. Why do you smell different?"

Stiles chokes. "What? What do you mean I smell different?" He raises his arms and sniffs at his armpits. "I took a shower, I swear!"

"No, I mean," Scott pauses, frowns, "you still smell like you, there's just something kind of off about it. Not a bad off, just…"

He shrugs.

"Oh." Stiles has absolutely no idea what to say to that. Does virginity have a smell? Or non-virginity?

"Hey, look," Scott suddenly says, and Stiles stops breathing, "Derek said to tell you that we're having a cook out this weekend, and your ass better be there. Pack bonding, or something."

Goddamn it, the last thing he wants to do is go to Derek's. There's no way he can get out of it without it being too suspicious, though, so he adjusts his backpack and says as casually as he can, "Yeah, okay. Sounds good."

"Great, I'll let him know," Scott says, suddenly sounding distracted.

Stiles follows his gaze and sees Allison at her locker. He snorts and gives Scott a push. "Go say hello before class."

Scott flashes him a grin and wanders off, leaving Stiles to let out a sharp breath. This weekend is going to be hell.

*

Somehow Stiles makes it through the week, and by Saturday he almost feels back to normal. When he pulls up in front of Derek's newly remodeled house, he lets the engine idle for a few minutes while he gathers up the nerve to get out and join the rest of the pack.

 _You can do this_ , he thinks, because there's no way he's talking to himself out loud with several super-hearing werewolves nearby. _It's just a cookout; no big deal._

He cuts the engine and gets out before he can change his mind.

Everybody except Derek and Boyd are in the living room when he walks in; Lydia and Jackson are cuddled up in a huge armchair, Allison and Scott are in their own little world on the couch, and Erica and Isaac are standing in front of the TV, arguing about which movie to watch.

"Hey," he says to the room at large. Nobody answers him and he rolls his eyes, dropping down on the couch as far away from Scott and Allison as he can get.

"Stiles!"

He jumps at the sound of Derek's voice, heart stopping for a split second before slamming against his ribcage at a frantic pace. Shit.

"Get your ass out here and help!"

"Why me?" he says irritably, but gets up anyway. "There are plenty of other capable people here who can help."

Derek shoves a plate of raw burgers at him as soon as he steps from the kitchen onto the back deck. "You're on grill duty. _Don't_ burn them."

"Yes, sir," Stiles says sarcastically, taking the plate. Derek goes still, staring at him oddly, and Stiles grimaces. "What?"

Derek scowls and stalks into the kitchen, leaving him alone with Boyd, who just shrugs at his questioning look.

"Don't ask me. He's been in a bad mood all week."

Stiles snorts, and starts putting burgers on the hot grill. "I thought 'bad' was his default mood."

"I heard that," Derek yells from inside.

"Good," Stiles yells back, just because, and then grins at Derek's answering growl.

Maybe things won't be too bad after all.

*

Once the burgers are done Stiles stacks them on a clean plate and takes them back into the kitchen, setting them on the center island next to the buns and numerous amounts of toppings. Derek is at the counter, finishing up what looks like potato salad, and Stiles just stands there for a minute, watching the way his shoulders move under his black t-shirt.

"Burgers are done," he finally says, which is stupid because Derek probably knows that already.

Derek turns to set the – yep, potato salad on the island, giving the burgers a once over. He nods, which is almost a compliment, and Stiles gives him a smug grin.

"Didn't burn them," he points out, just because Derek had thought he would.

Derek looks at him for a moment, and then he grins back, a hint of wickedness making Stiles blink.

"Good boy."

Stiles' eyes go wide, breath punched from his lungs as heat creeps through him, twisting his stomach and making the back of his neck hot. "What – but you – I don't –"

Derek's grin widens, but instead of saying anything more to Stiles he turns and calls for the others to come eat. They pile into the room and start filling their plates, and Stiles jerks into motion, reaching for the stack of nearby paper plates. Before he can grab one, a warm body is pressed up against his back and a familiar hand is taking one of the plates off the top. Stiles bites down hard on his bottom lip to keep from making whatever sound is probably about to escape.

"Sorry," Derek says, breath brushing against Stiles' ear. "I'm ravenous."

Stiles chokes back a laugh. "That was so bad."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Derek says easily, moving away, and Stiles lets out a slow breath, glancing around at the others. He flushes when he catches Scott giving him an odd look, but none of the others seem to have noticed.

Or they're just pretending not to notice, in which case Stiles _so_ owes them.

He busies himself by making a plate, trying to calm his racing heart (oh my god, there's no way the others don't hear it, Jesus fucking –) and telling himself that Derek is just being his usual, asshole self. It doesn't mean he actually wants Stiles.

Nothing has changed.

*

Somehow, some way, he ends up squished between Derek and the arm of the couch. They're pressed together from hip to knee, and the only reason their shoulders aren't touching too is because Stiles has slowly leaned away, trying to pretend that he has to balance his plate on the arm as an excuse. Derek has refused to look at him since they ended up this way, going from his I-have-no-emotions face to his scowly grump face, picking at his food and resolutely staring at whatever inane movie is playing on the TV.

Which is very fucking confusing, thank you very much.

The others seem unaware, talking and eating and not really paying any attention to the movie at all, and Stiles tries desperately to keep his breathing even and his heart rate steady. He's also desperately trying to keep his dick from getting hard (okay, hard _er_ ; he's been at half-mast since that whole whatever-it-was in the kitchen, because apparently now his body thinks he's going to get some happy fun Stiles time, and he's sorry to disappoint it, but no).

It's fucking frustrating, and also causes a sharp twisting _thing_ to happen in that hollow place in his chest. None of it is fair, and Stiles is used to his life being unfair, he really is, but it's even worse now because he's actually had Derek but isn't allowed to have him anymore.

It's like giving someone a spoonful of their favorite ice cream and then telling them they can't have any more for the rest of their lives.

Okay, Stiles is bad at analogies, _whatever_ , it's still awkward and painful and just. Not. Fair.

He tries to concentrate on the movie, but his mind keeps drifting back to Friday night, the way Derek had felt against him, inside of him, and he curls his fingers into the fabric of the couch in an effort to stay grounded. He's in a room full of werewolves who can smell arousal, and he's probably already humiliated himself enough. No need to push it and have them start asking questions he –and probably Derek – doesn't want to answer.

He picks up his burger and takes a big bite – and promptly chokes on it when Derek's hand suddenly settles on his thigh.

"You okay?" Isaac asks, glancing over, and Stiles waves him away, face turning red.

"Fine," he mumbles around his food, and Lydia wrinkles her nose.

"That's disgusting, Stiles," she says, and all he can do is shrug an apology.

They turn back to the movie and Stiles carefully sets his burger down, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. Heat is pooling on his leg where Derek's hand still rests, and he carefully glances over at him. Derek's gaze is focused on the TV, his other hand is held loosely around his fork. The only thing that even remotely gives away that he knows what he's doing is the tiny smirk curling his lips.

The real problem here, Stiles thinks while trying not to panic, is not that Derek is touching him. No, it's that his hand is so high on his leg that all he has to do is slide it over a few inches and he would be touching Stiles' dick. Which is not okay, because hello, room full of werewolves.

Stiles slowly reaches over and grasps Derek's wrist, trying to lift it off his leg without drawing attention to the two of them. Derek doesn't budge, of course, and Stiles lets out a frustrated huff. He's beyond confused at this point, and so turned on it's kind of ridiculous even for him, and honestly, he's starting to get a little bit pissed off. It's not like Derek to play games, and there's only so much Stiles can be expected to take.

"Problem?" Derek asks quietly, still staring at the TV.

Stiles glares at him, but instead of answering he picks up his burger and takes another bite. Derek's smirk grows just a tiny bit.

*

By the time the third movie ends Stiles has gotten used to the feel of Derek's unmoving hand on his thigh, but he's also gotten extremely restless because, seriously, three movies? Pack bonding is one thing, but this is bordering on torture. He's been shifting around in his seat (well, as much as he can while pressed up against Derek) since a quarter way through the second movie, and if he doesn't get up and move soon he's going to start…doing something. He's not sure what but it won't be pretty.

"Okay, everybody out," Derek suddenly says, leaning down to pick the remote up from the floor and clicking the TV off.

Jackson and Lydia untangle themselves from their armchair, and Erica stretches where she's splayed out on the floor, nudging at Isaac with her foot until he grunts and sits up, blinking sleepily. Boyd grabs his jacket and pulls it on, and Scott helps Allison up from the couch, their fingers curling together as they make for the door. Stiles breathes out a sigh of relief for getting through the day, and makes a show of stretching where he sits, trying to dislodge Derek's hand. It works, except –

Except Scott grimaces at him as he passes, Jackson rolls his eyes, Boyd smirks just a little, Isaac carefully avoids his gaze, and Erica flat out grins wickedly.

"Have fun," she sing songs at him as she walks by, and Stiles closes his eyes and wonders if he can get away with smothering himself with a couch cushion.

" _Out_ ," Derek insists, and shoos them all out the door, shutting it behind them.

"Right," Stiles says after a moment of silence. "I should probably get going too, you know, it's late and tomorrow's…Sunday."

He winces at how absolutely idiotic he sounds. He should be used to it by now, but he's mortified enough as it is.

"Or you could stay," Derek says, and it's not a question, not really, but Stiles knows it's meant as one.

The problem is that he's still really fucking confused, and Derek asking him to stay makes it worse.

"Okay, I don't get it," Stiles says, pushing up from the couch and spinning to face Derek fully. "What the _hell_ , Derek? Last Friday was…well, it was what it was, and that's okay, but I figured that was it. I figured we'd be a little awkward around each other for a while before things got back to normal, but then today – I'm just really confused and I don't have any fucking idea what you're trying to do."

Derek stares at him, and instead of being angry like Stiles expected, he just looks uncomfortable, like he's actually trying to figure out the best way to answer. Finally, when Stiles is about to reach the point of no return and walk out, Derek frowns and opens his mouth.

"Last Friday shouldn't have happened the way it did. I just wanted to see if maybe you'd be interested in, I don't know, something you actually have a choice in."

Stiles isn't sure what to say to that, mostly because he isn't sure he heard correctly. "Are you saying that you want to have sex again? And if you _are_ , is it because you feel guilty or because you actually want to?"

"Yes," Derek says, which is more of a non-answer than anything. 

"Are you _kidding me_? Yes what? Look, I don't want you to have sex with me again just because you feel guilty about having to take my virginity under extreme circumstances and want to fix it or what the fuck ever. I'm a big boy, I can handle it. No pity fucks are going to be happening, okay?"

Derek raises his eyebrows, and then he's _right there_ , backing Stiles against the wall and pinning him in with hands braced on either side of his head.

"Oh, wow, okay," Stiles says, heart picking up speed. "I should go, I think –"

Derek leans in and noses under Stiles' jaw, breathing in deep. "You want me; I can smell it. And I don't do pity fucks." Stiles makes a desperate noise in the back of his throat. "If you want to deny yourself, I won't stop you; the door's right over there. I'm not going to force you into anything. But I wouldn't have offered if I didn't want to."

Stiles closes his eyes, trying to calm down. His dick is rock hard inside his jeans, and oh god, Derek is mouthing at his neck, tongue warm against his skin. It's not everything he wants – he wants actual emotions and other things he'll never admit to – but if Derek is offering sex without being forced into it by some freaky magic shit then Stiles is damn well going to take what he can get.

"Okay," he breathes, and Derek grins against his neck before dragging his tongue along his jaw to Stiles' mouth.

Derek kisses him, and it's hard and messy and wet, and Stiles feels a small bubble of hysteria grow in his chest when he realizes that they had sex before they had their first kiss. Derek licks his way into Stiles' mouth, chasing the thought away with a moan, and Stiles makes a noise of his own, raising his hands to bury them in Derek's hair. The wall is hard against his back, and he's grateful for its presence when Derek suddenly presses his entire body against him, placing his hands on Stiles' waist and rolling their hips together.

Stiles breaks the kiss, head falling back to hit the wall as he gasps. "Oh my god, oh my god, Derek –"

Derek's mouth is back on Stiles' neck, his hands sliding from Stiles' waist to his ass to the back of his thighs, and Stiles is only half expecting it when he lifts him up. He flails just a little, hands clutching at Derek's shoulders and legs automatically wrapping around Derek's waist. Derek reaches up with one hand and presses it against the back of Stiles' head, pulling him down into another kiss. Stiles whimpers, opening his mouth and letting Derek's tongue in; he slides his hands down Derek's chest and slips them under Derek's shirt, dragging his nails lightly over warm skin. He feels Derek shudder, and then his legs are being pushed at, so he drops his feet back to the floor. Hands are immediately at his belt, and he groans in anticipation, his dick jerking against his boxers. They're still kissing, Derek's mouth a bruising pressure against his, and Stiles can feel Derek's heart beating steadily against his chest.

When Derek's hand slides in and grips his dick, Stiles thinks he might actually come on the spot. He desperately wants to touch Derek, to feel their dicks pressed together, so he mumbles, "You too," against Derek's lips and slides his hands down to fumble with the button on Derek's jeans. Derek groans, nipping at his bottom lip, and Stiles tries to ignore the way his hands shake as he pushes clothing out of the way and wraps his fingers around Derek's hard dick.

"Fuck, Stiles," Derek says, breaking away, and shifts just enough to remove Stiles' hand from him.

A sudden spike of panic hits his chest and for a second Stiles can't breathe, but Derek just kisses him gently and moves closer again, pushing Stiles' jeans and boxers down and pressing their dicks together, rolling his hips.

"Oh – oh, fuck," Stiles groans, hips jerking as Derek starts to grind against him. "Oh god, I'm going to come." Derek chuckles, moving back just enough that they're not touching anymore, and Stiles whines. "Wait, no, I didn't mean _stop_ –"

His hands scrabble at Derek's t-shirt and Derek grins, grabbing Stiles' wrists and lifting them to pin to the wall above his head. Stiles tugs and Derek's grip tightens as he lets out a low growl.

"Oh my god," Stiles breathes out, far more turned on than he thinks he should be.

Derek leans in and kisses him again, deep and rough, and slots their hips together. Their dicks slide against each other, precome from both of them making it easier, and Stiles moans, a shudder wracking his body. He's so fucking close he can feel sparks going off in his spine. His dick is throbbing, achingly hard, and Derek is slamming his hips against Stiles', pushing them together in a steady rhythm. He's going to have bruises later, and a thrill goes through him at the thought; he'll have proof this actually happened, even if only for a few days.

Derek suddenly bites down on Stiles' bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth, and it sends Stiles right over. He comes, dick jerking, hot liquid pulsing out of the tip and dripping over both of them. Derek groans, his own dick sliding through the mess, and Stiles has gone boneless, Derek's hands and hips the only thing keeping him on his feet. He closes his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall, and can do nothing but whine as Derek's cock pushes against his, over-sensitized and still half-hard.

Derek's hips are jerking erratically and he moves his mouth to Stiles' neck, teeth slightly sharper than usual as they press against skin. He growls low and deep, and comes, shuddering as it adds to the mess between them.

Neither of them moves, Derek's weight holding Stiles against the wall. Eventually he releases Stiles' wrists, bringing them down and rubbing his thumbs over them gently.

"I'm okay," Stiles says, opening his eyes, his voice just slightly slurred. "I'm – more than okay."

Derek glances up, and after a brief moment he nods, letting go completely and stepping back. Stiles shivers, feeling cold where Derek's body had just been.

"You can shower if you want," Derek says, looking down as he pulls up his clothes and tucks himself back in. "I don't mind going second."

Stiles' stomach suddenly clenches, and awkwardness settles over him. It's a familiar feeling, but entirely unwelcome at the moment. "What time is it?" he asks, looking anywhere but at Derek as he adjusts his own clothing. He grimaces at the cold, sticky feeling of drying come pulling at his skin.

"About ten-thirty," Derek answers, and Stiles pulls his phone from his pocket to double check.

"I should go ahead and go home," he says, and finally looks up. Derek is watching him, expression unreadable. "Clean clothes, you know? I mean after I shower."

Derek looks like he's going to say something, but then his mouth turns up at one corner and he just nods. Stiles hesitates, not sure how goodbyes are meant to be handled in this kind of situation, but Derek leans in and gives him a quick kiss, just a press of lips on lips.

"See you later?"

"Yeah," Stiles breathes, heart suddenly pounding. "Definitely."

Derek turns and disappears through the living room door and up the stairs, leaving Stiles to stumble his way to the front door. He steps out into the cool night air, climbs into his Jeep, and manages to make it all the way home and park in his driveway before bursting into hysterical laughter. He laughs until he cries, but then the laughter fades and his eyes still sting, so he closes them and rests his forehead against his steering wheel, breathing deeply.

He wonders if this was a one-time thing or if Derek will want to continue having sex with him. He can't imagine that Derek would, but if he does then Stiles knows he won't say no; no is not even remotely an option.

He sits up and presses the palms of his hands against his eyes until the stinging fades. The thought of long-term sex with Derek makes his heart pound in excitement, but knowing a real relationship will never come from it hurts more than he wants to admit.

Pros and cons, he tells himself as he opens his door and jumps down. And right now the pros outweigh the cons.

*

Stiles wakes the next morning to the smell of his dad cooking breakfast. He rolls out of bed and stumbles his way to the bathroom, locking the door behind him before stripping off his clothes and staring at himself in the mirror. There are bruises on his hips, blooms of yellow and green, and finger-shaped marks on his wrists. On his neck is the faint shape of Derek's teeth, and he trails his fingers over it.

He sucks in a sharp breath and closes his eyes, pretending for just a moment that Derek had done it all on purpose, to mark him as his.

A knock sounds on the door, making him jump, and his eyes fly open to see his flushed cheeks reflected back at him.

"You in there, kiddo? Breakfast is almost ready."

Stiles clears his throat. "Yeah, I'll be down in a few."

His dad walks away and Stiles moves to turn on the shower, making the water as hot as he can stand it. He'll have to find something to wear that covers the bruises on his wrists and neck; he's not quite ready for that conversation with his dad just yet.

Maybe not ever.

*

It's not until later that Stiles remembers his clothes that Derek still has. The thought that Derek hadn't mentioned them just so Stiles would leave is like a punch to his chest, knocking the air from his lungs and making him unsteady on his feet.

*

The bruises haven't faded by the time school starts on Monday, but fortunately the weather is cool enough for him to get away with wearing a hoodie. Scott still gives him an odd look as he walks by to take the seat behind Stiles, leaning forward to speak directly in his ear.

"So this thing with Derek –"

"It's not a thing," Stiles interrupts, because he is _not talking about this_.

"Your heartbeat says otherwise," Scott points out.

Stiles kinds of hates him.

"Okay, I don't _know_ if it's a thing," Stiles says, and he really doesn't so Scott can just fuck right off. "And I don't want to talk about it."

"Look, I'm just saying –"

"Oh my god."

"I'm just _saying_ that you know Derek's not my favorite person but whatever it is that's between the two of you, you're my best friend and I'll support you no matter what. Whether that means you and Derek never speak to each other again or get married and have lots of little werewolf puppies. Okay?"

Stiles nearly chokes on his tongue at that image. "Jesus Christ, Scott, I am not going to have puppies! What the _hell_."

He twists in his seat to glare, and finds Scott giving him a shit-eating grin.

"But you'd marry him, right?"

"You are evil, and I hate you," Stiles says flatly, completely serious. 

Scott just laughs, and Stiles turns back around, determined to ignore him for the rest of the day.

"Hey," Scott says, poking him in the back. Stiles clenches his teeth together and doesn't respond. "I mean it. No matter what."

Stiles stares down at his desk, fiddling with the cuff of his hoodie, rubbing a finger over the hidden bruise on his wrist. "Thanks," he finally whispers.

Scott doesn't say anything else, but Stiles feels his hand squeeze his shoulder, and he has to take a deep, steadying breath.

*

Derek is waiting in the parking lot after lacrosse practice, and as much as Stiles' heart jumps in hope, the scowl on Derek's face makes it fall again. He exchanges a look with Scott and they jog over to where Derek is leaning against the hood of the Camaro. Something unsettling creeps into Stiles' bones.

"What's wrong?"

"Have either of you seen Isaac today?" Derek asks, and the pit of Stiles' stomach drops.

"I haven't," Scott says, and looks at Stiles. "Have you?"

Stiles shakes his head.

Derek pulls a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and hands it to them. "This was shoved under my door when I got home half an hour ago. I've been able to locate everyone except Isaac."

Scott opens the note and Stiles reads out loud over his shoulder.

" _You took mine so I took yours._ What the fuck does that even mean?"

"It smells like magic," Derek says darkly, and Stiles' head snaps up to stare at him.

"The witch –"

"The one you killed last week?" Scott asks, frowning.

"Not her, but someone she was close to," Stiles says, trying to ignore the panic that shivers down his spine. " _You took mine so I took yours._ Revenge."

Scott crumples the note in his fist. "We have to find him before she kills him."

"Find Jackson; I'll get Erica and Boyd," Derek says, and looks at Stiles. "Meet me at the cave."

Stiles nods and grabs Scott's arm, dragging him toward the Jeep. If Isaac is hurt, he's going to rip someone's fucking head off, human or not.

*

"It's not your fault, you know," Scott says, grabbing onto the top of his door as Stiles takes a curve a little too fast. Jackson curses in the back seat, but they both ignore him.

"I should have noticed," Stiles says, hands gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turn white.

" _We_ should have noticed," Scott says, and Stiles shakes his head but doesn't argue.

The rest of the ride is silent.

*

They get there at the same time Derek does, with Erica and Boyd in tow.

"Do you really think whoever it is would bring Isaac here?" Stiles asks, nervously pulling the sleeves of his hoodie down over his hands.

Derek nods, looking at the cave entrance. "He's in there. I can hear his heartbeat."

"Then let's get him out and find the bitch who took him," Erica snaps, stalking towards the opening.

Derek growls, throwing a hand out to stop her. "We can't just all run in there. There needs to be at least two look outs to let us know if anything happens out here. Stiles –"

"Not a fucking chance," Stiles snaps.

"Fine," Derek says after a moment, talking through clenched teeth and glowering at him. "Jackson and Boyd, you stay. Scott, Erica, and Stiles, follow me."

The cave is as damp and creepy as Stiles remembers, and he barely suppresses a shudder as they walk towards the back. If he sees even a hint of red powder he's getting the fuck out of the way.

"He's over there," Derek says quietly, and it's probably for Stiles' benefit, seeing as he's the only one without super werewolfy hearing.

"This is too easy," Stiles whispers back, and low laughter immediately echoes from a shadowy corner.

The others tense, all of them starting to growl, and Stiles realizes they hadn't known she was there.

"How did you do that?" he asks, and a flare of light suddenly brightens the cave. He can see Isaac unconscious against one of the cave walls, for the most part looking unharmed. The witch is in the corner, dark hair wild around her face. Her smile is blank and deadly. 

"Just a little spell I know," she said, voice sing-song. Her smile drops. "Kind of like this one."

Derek jumps at her but he's too late; she opens her mouth wide and a high-pitched wail echoes through the cave. Stiles winces and covers his ears, but when he looks at the others he freezes. Scott and Erica have curled in on themselves, screaming, and Derek is not much better off, face shifting back to human as he ducks down, covering his head. Even Isaac – still unconscious – jerks and moans, hands twitching.

And then Stiles sees the blood beginning to leak from their ears and noses. Panicking, Stiles looks around for something, _anything_ that he can use as a weapon, and finding nothing he does the next best thing – he runs straight at her, tackling her to the ground with an angry yell. The wailing stops, but she lets out a screech of rage, and suddenly Stiles feels her sharp nails sink into the flesh of his side.

He cries out, trying to jerk away, but she just laughs and leans up, placing her mouth next to his ear.

"Three's a charm," she whispers.

Stiles doesn't have time to wonder what that means before he's being snatched away, a dangerous, angry sounding snarl echoing through the cave. He lands on his back and slides a few feet, stopping near Isaac's body.

"Fuck," he gasps, trying to sit up despite the pain in his side. 

Scott appears next to him, pushing down on his chest. "Don't move," he orders, pulling up Stiles' shirt and pressing gently against the puncture wounds. Stiles hisses, but lets him poke and prod; from the corner of his eye he can see Erica lifting Isaac and heading toward the entrance, and he can hear the disgusting sounds of Derek ripping into the witch.

This is becoming a habit Stiles doesn't really want to continue.

"I'm fine," he finally says, batting Scott's hands away. "Just help me up."

When he's on his feet he lifts his shirt and looks down at the holes in his side; they're not too deep, thank fuck, and should heal quickly enough with some of Deaton's salve. Still hurts like a motherfucker.

"Why is it always me who ends up with the puncture wounds?"

"Because you're the only one stupid enough to get close without a way to protect yourself," Derek says, coming up next to them with a scowl on his face. He's covered in blood, and Stiles tries not to grimace.

"Thank you, Stiles, you saved our asses, Stiles," he says, putting as much sarcasm behind the words as he can. "I'm glad you're not dead, Stiles."

Derek rolls his eyes and grabs him by the arm, dragging him towards the entrance, Scott following close behind. When they step out of the cave they see Erica, Boyd, and Jackson surrounding a conscious but drowsy-looking Isaac.

"Fuck, my head," Isaac mumbles, dropping it into his hands.

"What the hell was that?" Jackson asks, scowling at them like it was their fault. "I thought my brain was going to explode."

"Banshee's wail," Derek says, letting go of Stiles and crouching down next to Isaac. "Are you okay?"

Isaac doesn't answer right away, and Stiles feels a sharp stab of fear.

"I think so," he finally says, blinking as he looks up. "I'm not sure what she did or how she did it, but the last thing I remember is walking through the front door of the school."

"I'm going to take you to Deaton," Derek says, helping him up. "Let him check you over and make sure you're really okay. Stiles, can you take everybody home?"

Stiles nods and waits until Derek's guided Isaac into his car before shooing the others toward his Jeep.

"Shotgun!" Jackson calls, taking off. "I'm not sitting in that piece of shit back seat again."

Scott makes an indignant sound, running to catch up. "No fucking way, best friend automatically gets dibs on the front seat!"

"Too late," Erica says, sliding into the seat before either of them can get there.

Boyd just rolls his eyes and climbs into the back.

"How is this my life," Stiles mutters, shoving at both Scott and Jackson until they get in.

He's going to go home and sleep for ten days.

*

Except when he finally gets home, Derek's there, splayed out on his bed, eyes closed. He's obviously showered; his clothes are clean and there's not a drop of blood on him, his hair damp where it curls against his temple. Stiles swallows, and drops his bag on the floor.

"Ten minutes," he says, and Derek cracks open an eye to look at him. "I seriously need a shower."

Derek closes his eye again, which is as good as an agreement as Stiles will probably get, so he grabs some clean clothes from his dresser and heads into the bathroom. When he steps back through his door, dressed in sweats and a t-shirt and hair damp against the back of his neck, Stiles pauses to just _stare_. Derek is still on his bed, and the only sign that he's moved at all is his leather jacket, now hanging over Stiles' desk chair.

He's asleep.

Or at least, Stiles thinks he's asleep, what with the soft snores and relaxed expression. Moving slowly, Stiles shuts his door and walks to his bed, nerves making his stomach jump. Derek doesn't even twitch, and Stiles wonders if he should wake him up. There has to be a reason he's here, right?

Except maybe that reason is to tell him that Saturday was a mistake and that it can't happen again, which Stiles would very much like to put off for as long as possible. So he should just let him sleep for now. Right?

But then again, he has homework to do and his dad will be home soon which means he needs to start dinner and also _get Derek out_.

A wave of exhaustion suddenly hits him, and it's probably mostly emotional but he didn't sleep much last night and lacrosse practice had been brutal and then he'd had to tackle an insane Banshee-wailing witch and got puncture wounds in his side for his trouble and they really hurt and all he wants to do is lie down next to Derek and sleep.

"Fuck it," Stiles mutters, and crawls onto the small space Derek isn't currently occupying. He hisses in a sharp breath when his side pulls, glancing at Derek's face to make sure he didn't wake him, and when all seems clear he settles down, turning to face the door with his back to Derek.

Derek immediately rolls over, throwing one leg over both of Stiles' and sliding an arm around his waist, fingers trailing over his stomach. Stiles stops breathing, because what the fuck, Derek is _spooning_ him, and he's pretty sure Derek is still asleep, if the even breaths puffing against the back of his neck are anything to go by.

"Okay," Stiles whispers, and tries to relax. "Okay."

He closes his eyes, focusing on keeping his own breathing steady, and eventually the warmth of Derek at his back lulls him into sleep.

*

It's dark outside his window when he wakes up, and the space where Derek had been is cold. He's not surprised, but it still hurts, and he has to swallow past the sudden tightness in his throat. Pushing himself up, Stiles sees a note on the nightstand, and his heart jumps in hope as he grabs it. It's from his dad, though, and he wonders when he'll ever learn.

_You looked exhausted so I didn't want to wake you. There's pizza in the fridge._

_Dad_

_p.s. Do your homework._

It makes him feel slightly better that Derek apparently left before his dad could find him cuddled up to Stiles in his bed, but only slightly. He tosses the note back onto his nightstand and leans his elbows on his knees, dropping his face into his hands. He's such an idiot; of course Derek wouldn't stay.

His stomach rumbles loudly, and Stiles doesn't have much of an appetite but he stands anyway and stretches, knowing he has to eat. Something pulls at the skin on his side and he pauses, lifting his shirt to look down at where the witch had shoved her nails into him. Instead of the puncture wounds he sees a white bandage, and he realizes the pain has faded.

"Huh," Stiles says quietly, and lowers his shirt back down.

He glances over at his closed window, the half-moon shining through, and a small smile tugs at his lips.

*

Stiles doesn't see Derek for the rest of the week, and by the time Saturday rolls around he's swinging back and forth between terrified, pissed off, and depressed. They all put him in a bad mood, because seriously, pathetic, and eventually Scott stops the movie they're trying to watch and gives him a look.

"What?" Stiles says irritably.

Scott shakes his head. "Get your ass up, get in your Jeep, and go see him."

"What?" Stiles blinks at him.

"Derek," Scott clarifies, speaking slowly as though Stiles is being purposely stupid. "You're driving me insane. _Go_."

"But –"

"I swear to fucking god, Stiles, I will drag your ass over there and abandon you."

Stiles scowls. "I hate you."

"Liar," Scott says, smirking.

Stiles grumbles under his breath as he gets up and pulls on his jacket, sticking his tongue out at Scott just before he closes the door.

He doesn't actually intend to go to Derek's, fully aware that he has no excuse for showing up out of the blue. He drives around aimlessly for a while, trying not to drown in all of these fucking _feelings_ , and when he actually decides to pay attention to where he's at, twenty minutes have passed and he's almost at Derek's.

"Great," Stiles mutters to himself. "Just great. Way to do the thing you didn't want to do."

He doesn't bother turning around; he's obviously some sort of emotional masochist or something, because his heart speeds up in excitement.

Derek's Camaro is parked out front, and Stiles sits in his Jeep for a few minutes, trying to get his heartbeat to slow down. Finally, he takes a deep breath and climbs out, making his way to the front door. He doesn't bother to knock; Derek will know he's there, and if he wanted him to leave he would have met him on the porch.

Except when he walks in he can hear two voices talking. Stiles frowns, following the sound to the kitchen, and stops in the doorway when he sees Peter sitting at the center island. Derek is standing on the opposite side, arms crossed and looking annoyed.

"Hello, Stiles," Peter says, smiling in that creepy way he has. "I'd say it's a surprise to see you, but I could hear you a mile away."

Stiles flushes. "Good for you." He glances at Derek and gestures back toward the front door. "I didn't know you were busy. I'll just come back later. Or something."

"You can stay," Derek says, frowning.

"Yes, do," Peter says, looking like Christmas has come early.

"I don't want to intrude –"

"Peter was just leaving, actually," Derek says pointedly, glaring at his uncle.

"I was? I could have sworn we were in the middle of –"

Derek's glare turns murderous and he growls warningly.

Peter sighs, but there's a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. "Yes, alright, if you insist." He slides off the stool and gives Stiles a wide smile. "I hope Derek realizes how lucky he is."

" _Get. Out._ "

Peter laughs, and raises his eyebrows at Stiles as he passes. Neither Stiles nor Derek moves until they hear the front door shut, and then Derek holds up his hand, cocking his head to listen.

"Okay, he's gone," he says after a minute.

Stiles has absolutely no fucking clue what to say. Derek stares at him, obviously waiting, and Stiles shifts from foot to foot. "My clothes," he suddenly blurts, and feels a rush of relief at having thought of an excuse for being there. "I, uh, came to see if I could have my clothes back."

Derek raises an eyebrow, looking amused. "Really?" he asks. "That's why you're here?"

Goddamned werewolf senses.

"Yes," Stiles says stubbornly, ignoring the way his face heats. "That was my favorite shirt."

"What shirt was it?"

Fuck.

"Um," Stiles says.

Derek looks like he's trying not to laugh. "Okay," he says, shrugging, and heads toward the door. He brushes past Stiles and pauses just long enough to lean close and say, "They're in my room. You'll have to come if you want them."

Stiles' breath hitches and he catches the flash of Derek's wicked grin a second before he's left alone in the kitchen.

"Holy god," he breathes, arousal twisting hotly through his stomach, and he swears he hears Derek chuckle on his way up the stairs.

Stiles turns to follow, stumbling slightly over his own feet, and has to force himself not to run all the way to Derek's room. As soon as he steps inside Derek is on him, slamming the door shut and crowding him against it, kissing him like he's trying to drown himself, lips and tongue and teeth invading Stiles' mouth and stealing his breath. Stiles makes a startled noise, hands flying up to grasp at Derek's hair, back arching off the door as he tries to get closer. Derek's arms wrap tightly around Stiles' back, hands sliding under his jacket and fingers twisting in the fabric of his t-shirt.

The kiss lasts so long Stiles is dizzy when he finally breaks away for air, and Derek lets out a low growl, ducking his head to nip sharply at Stiles' neck. His tongue dips into the hollow between Stiles' collarbones, teeth scraping along skin, and Stiles can't do much except hold on and hope his knees don't give out. His dick is so hard it hurts, and even biting down on his bottom lip doesn't stop desperate little whines from escaping.

Derek's hips are pushing against his, hitching little movements that send fire through Stiles' veins. He groans, sliding his hands down to Derek's fly, and is suddenly struck with an idea that makes his stomach flip with a combination of nerves and excitement.

"Wait, wait," he gasps, pushing gently at Derek's chest.

Derek pulls back to look at him, and Stiles makes a noise in the back of his throat. His eyes are glazed, hinting at red, his lips swollen, hair a mess from Stiles' hands, cheeks flushed, and Stiles' heart literally skips a beat.

"What is it?" Derek asks, and oh god, he already sounds wrecked and they just started. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Stiles says, shaking his head. "I just…"

He's not sure how to finish that sentence, and he hesitates just long enough that Derek's expression begins to shut down and no. No, that's not going to happen. So he takes a deep breath and slowly falls to his knees, keeping his eyes locked onto Derek's.

"Please," Stiles whispers, heart pounding wildly, hands trembling as he clenches them into fists.

"God, _Stiles_ ," Derek says, voice low and rough, and he reaches down to cup Stiles' jaw with one hand.

Stiles closes his eyes and leans into the touch, tongue flicking out to lick at Derek's thumb when it trails over his bottom lip. He hears Derek draw in a sharp breath, and he swallows.

"Look at me," Derek says, and Stiles opens his eyes, sees Derek staring down at him, gaze dark and a hungry expression on his face. "Take me out."

Stiles feels like he can't breathe, he's too hot, hands still trembling as he reaches up to fumble at the button on Derek's jeans. It takes him a few tries and he flushes, but Derek just strokes his cheek and waits patiently, until Stiles pulls Derek's jeans and underwear down and wraps his hand around his dick. Derek lets out a loud breath, like he'd been holding it, and Stiles wants to look up at him but he can't take his eyes off Derek's dick. It's right at eye-level, thick and heavy and so, so hard, and Stiles nervously licks his lips.

Derek's thumb traces his bottom lip again, gently pushing inside. "Let me," he says, more question than command. "Let me teach you."

Stiles moans, looking up at him as Derek opens his mouth, thumb pressing down on his teeth and brushing against his tongue. He lifts his hands to grip Derek's hips, waiting, listening to Derek's breath go ragged. His heart settles into a steady _thump, thump, thump_ , rhythm faster than normal but not because of fear or doubt.

The head of Derek's dick touches his bottom lip, tapping gently, and Derek slides his thumb out as he pushes in, slow and shallow. Stiles closes his eyes and breathes through his nose, trying not to gag, but he's never had something so big in his mouth and it's a really weird feeling.

"Tighten your lips and suck," Derek says, threading his fingers through Stiles' hair.

Stiles obeys, the slick slide of spit and precome making it easier for Derek to push in and out, and they both moan. His dick is rock hard inside his jeans, and he thinks he could probably come just from this.

"God, your mouth," Derek says, thumb sliding back to the corner of Stiles' lips, pushing gently and breaking the suction. "Open, as wide as you can."

Stiles relaxes his jaw, trying to do as he's told, and above him Derek groans, pushing a little deeper. Derek's hand tightens in Stiles' hair, holding him in place. Stiles' fingers dig into Derek's hips, desperately trying to stay still as Derek begins to rock, steadily pushing into Stiles' mouth, going a little bit deeper every time. 

There's spit running down Stiles chin and his eyes are watering and oh god, Derek is _fucking his face_ and Stiles' dick is throbbing, aching for him to touch, but when he reaches down Derek growls out a dangerous sounding –

"No."

– so Stiles whimpers and curls his hands into fists, twisting them in the hem of Derek's t-shirt.

"Good," Derek mummers, free hand stroking down the side of Stiles' face. "So good for me."

Stiles makes another whimpery noise, and he'd be embarrassed except Derek seems pleased. His jaw is starting to ache and he can't feel his tongue anymore and his dick _hurts_ , but he doesn't care because Derek is still in his mouth.

Derek suddenly growls above him, his fingers tightening almost painfully in Stiles' hair, and he shoves deep, deeper than before. Stiles chokes, struggling for air, and there's something hot sliding down his throat. It only takes him a second to realize that Derek is coming, and his own orgasm slams into him, dick twitching and pulsing as he makes a mess in his boxers, completely untouched.

Derek pulls out carefully and Stiles gasps in a breath, looking up at him with wide eyes.

"Holy shit."

Oh god, his voice sounds _wrecked_. Derek makes a noise, closing his eyes for a second, and then reaches down to help Stiles to his feet.

"Did I hurt you?"

Stiles shakes his head, holding tight to Derek's arms until he's sure his legs won't collapse under him. "No," he says, and fuck, he's not going to be able to talk to anyone else for the rest of the day. "I am definitely not hurt in any sort of way."

Derek studies him for a moment, probably checking his heartbeat, and Stiles meets his gaze directly. Finally, Derek nods, a small smile curling his mouth up.

"You can have your clothes back now," Derek says, amusement lacing his words, and Stiles flushes.

"Jerk face," he mutters, but he feels far too good to actually be angry.

Derek laughs, and turns him in the direction of the shower. "I'll bring them to you. If you want to stick around and wash these we could watch a movie or something while we wait?"

Stiles blinks at him. "Okay?"

Derek nods, looking satisfied, and starts fixing his own clothes, leaving Stiles to wander away in confusion.

*

He ends up dozing off in the middle of the movie, feet propped up on Derek's lap. It's a few hours later when Derek shakes him awake, handing him a stack of clean, dryer-warm clothes. Stiles yawns and stretches, pulling his phone from the pocket of his sweats to check the time.

"I've got to go," he says, not meaning to sound as regretful about it as he does.

Derek helps him up, tangling their fingers together as he walks Stiles to the door and then all the way outside to his Jeep. He takes the clothes from Stiles and tosses them into the passenger seat, and then pushes Stiles against the side, kissing him slow and deep. Stiles feels boneless, clinging to the front of Derek's t-shirt, letting out a little sigh when Derek pulls away to pepper kisses down his jaw.

Finally Derek steps back and raises his eyebrow. 

"You do know you don't have to make up stupid excuses to come over, right?"

Stiles shifts uncomfortably, shrugging; he doesn't really know what to say to that. Derek sighs, shaking his head, and gives Stiles one last kiss before opening his door and pushing him towards it.

"Go home, before I change my mind."

Stiles' heart stops for a split second, and he busies himself searching his pockets for his keys so he doesn't have to look at Derek. "Right," he says, laughing nervously. "No chance of that happening. So I'm just…going to go."

Derek huffs but doesn't argue, stepping back so Stiles can shut his door and buckle up. He starts the engine and gives Derek a little awkward wave through the window, refusing to let himself look in the rearview mirror as he makes his way down Derek's long-ass driveway.

He replays the last several hours in his head as he drives home, trying to make sense of it. Derek being teasing and seductive, Derek being sexy as fuck, Derek being sweet and cuddly. It's like a movie in his head, one he can't understand no matter how many times he watches it.

His dad's asleep on the couch when he gets home, and Stiles picks up the remote from where it's fallen on the floor, clicking the TV off. He grabs a blanket and tosses it over his father before heading upstairs to his room, collapsing onto his bed and staring at the ceiling.

It takes him a long time to fall asleep, and when he finally does his dreams are more of a jumbled mess than usual.

*

Stiles wakes the next morning to his phone buzzing on his nightstand. He reaches for it blindly, narrowing bleary eyes at the screen until he can make out the name _Scott_. He groans, considers ignoring it, and answers anyway.

"Yo."

"So how'd it go?"

Stiles blinks up at his ceiling, trying to clear his head. "How did what go?"

Scott huffs. "Yesterday, with Derek. Remember? I made you stop moping around and go talk to him?"

"Oh," Stiles says, because right. Derek. Blowjobs. The movie and semi-cuddling on the couch. The goodbye kiss. He swallows, remembering how his voice had sounded, how he'd come without being touched, the floaty, spacey feeling that had lasted for so long afterwards.

"Stiles?"

"What? Oh, yeah. It, uh, it went fine."

"Fine? That's it?"

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Do you want details, Scott? Because I could give you details, but I don't think you'd like to hear them."

"Never-talking-to-each-other-again details or no-longer-a-virgin details?"

"How about the none-of-your-business details?"

"Ha!" Scott crows. "I knew it! You're totally in love with him."

"Last time I checked, sex does not equal love."

"You're a moron."

"Is there a point to this conversation?" Stiles asks, irritated.

"It's my duty as your best friend to annoy the fuck out of you for any reason involving sex, especially sex with Derek. What other point do I need?"

"I'm hanging up now," Stiles says, and hits end on Scott's laugh.

He lays there for a minute, contemplating going back to sleep, but now that he's been reminded of yesterday his brain seems to think it has permission to replay all of it. Groaning, Stiles covers his face with his pillow, ignoring the way his morning erection twitches. He can't decide if he should be humiliated at how he practically begged Derek to let him suck him off, or if he should be amazingly turned on at how Derek reacted.

And then there was Derek's teasing before and softness after, both of which were, quite frankly, really fucking weird. It was like he was still Derek, except not. Stiles pushes his pillow out of the way and picks his phone up from where he'd dropped it on his chest, opening a new text.

_did you get replaced by an alien? or wait, a changeling? those exist, right?_

Derek texts back almost immediately, making Stiles heart jump into his throat.

_You're a moron._

Stiles huffs. That's the second time in twenty minutes he's been called a moron, and honestly, it doesn't make him feel much better about his life at the moment.

_temporary insanity?_

Derek doesn't answer this time, not that Stiles expects him to. He tosses his phone back onto his nightstand and gives in to his dick, sliding his hand into his sweats to stroke himself off. When he comes, it's to the memory of Derek's dick in his throat, and he can't decide if that's hot or depressing.

*

His dad is just putting breakfast on the table when Stiles finally makes his way down to the kitchen. 

"Pancakes!" he says, grabbing a plate and filling it with glee.

Dad looks amused, grabbing the orange juice from the fridge and filling a glass, setting it on the table in front of Stiles. "Hungry, son?"

"Just a little," Stiles says cheerfully. He adds bacon and eggs to his plate and then drowns it all in syrup, ignoring the grimace his dad makes.

"So what did you do yesterday?" Dad asks, taking the seat opposite and making a plate for himself. "You went to Scott's, right?"

Stiles nods, because it's true, but he keeps his eyes on his food. "Yeah, we watched a movie."

Which isn't entirely a lie; he and Scott had tried to watch a movie, and Stiles hadn't specified exactly who _we_ was.

"You got home pretty late for just watching a movie," Dad points out, taking a bite of his bacon and watching Stiles carefully.

Stiles clears his throat, which reminds him of exactly what he was doing yesterday. "Well, you know, we hung out a bit too. Didn't really do much." He looks up and points his fork at his dad. "And I was in before curfew, which you would know if you hadn't fallen asleep on the couch. You shouldn't do that, it's bad for your back."

Dad gives him a look. "Don't lecture me about where I choose to sleep. Lecturing is my job."

"I'm not lecturing," Stiles argues – or tries to around a mouth full of pancakes. "I'm just saying. Couches are not for sleeping, beds are for sleeping."

"And only sleeping," Dad says pointedly.

Stiles flushes. "What – of course! I mean, what else – no, never mind, don't answer that."

"Stiles –"

"I can't hear you over the sound of my chewing," Stiles says loudly, stuffing another big bite into his mouth and making exaggerated eating noises.

Dad rolls his eyes. "Fine, we'll talk about something else. For now, at least."

Stiles sags in relief, and gestures for his dad to continue.

"You sound hoarse this morning; are you getting a cold?"

Stiles chokes, coughing violently. Dad raises an eyebrow and nudges Stiles' glass of orange juice closer, waiting as he takes several big gulps.

"Sorry," Stiles finally wheezes. "Too much food at once."

"Nothing new there," Dad teases, and Stiles laughs weakly.

The rest of breakfast passes without incident, and Stiles eventually relaxes enough for his heart to quit racing. His dad asks about school and lacrosse and how Scott and Allison are doing, and he tries to answer as honestly as possible. They haven't talked much over the past few weeks, what with Stiles being an angst-basket over Derek, and it feels nice to reconnect.

When they're both finished, Stiles stands to start cleaning up –

– and is hit with a sudden wave of dizziness, the room taking a wild spin around him, and he stumbles. The plate in his hand crashes to the floor, shattering, and he desperately grabs onto a chair to try and keep his balance, but it's a pointless effort because he ends up on his ass on the floor anyway. His hands land on pieces of the broken plate, cutting into his palms, and the very top of the chair back hits him across the temple.

"Stiles," Dad says, right in his face, and when did that happen? "Stiles, are you okay?"

"Oh god," Stiles manages, pulling his knees up and dropping his head down on them. The room is still tilting all over the place. "Dizzy."

"Okay, don't move," Dad says, and pushes the chair out of the way. He takes Stiles' hands and examines them, poking until Stiles hisses in pain. "I don't think you'll need stitches, but we'll need to bandage these. Come on, let's get you up."

Stiles isn't much help as his dad carefully pulls him to his feet and deposits him into one of the other kitchen chairs. The room is slowing down slightly, so Stiles breathes deep and tries to focus on a single point. Dad quickly sweeps up the broken plate and tosses it into the trash, disappearing for a few minutes before returning with the first aid kit.

"What the hell happened?" he asks, righting the fallen chair and pulling it in front of Stiles. He takes one of Stiles' hands and starts cleaning it with alcohol.

"Oh my _freaking_ –" Stiles starts, and tries to yank his hand away. "That _hurts_."

"Necessary," Dad says shortly, not letting go. "Answer my question."

"I don't know," Stiles says, wincing at the sting. The room is finally beginning to still. "I just got dizzy all of a sudden. I think you're right, maybe I am coming down with something."

Dad frowns. "Maybe I should take you to the doctor."

"Dad, I'm fine," Stiles says, biting down on his tongue as his dad moves to his other hand.

"You were fine five minutes ago. _That_ was not fine."

"Dad." Stiles waits until he looks up and catches his eye, and he can see the deeper fear behind the immediate concern over his son's welfare. "It's probably just a cold. If it keeps happening I'll go to the doctor, okay?"

His dad hesitates, then nods shortly, focusing on bandaging Stiles' hands. "I want you to stay home today."

"Dad –"

" _Stiles_. Just…for once. Do what I ask."

Stiles pauses, glancing down at his hands. "Okay," he finally says, quiet, and feels a stab of guilt when his father visibly relaxes.

When his dad finishes wrapping up his hands Stiles takes a couple of Tylenol and heads back up to his room. As soon as he steps through the door he realizes he's exhausted, so he collapses face down on his bed and immediately falls asleep.

*

He feels a little better Monday morning, but by the time lunch rolls around he can't quite catch his breath and his hands are trembling just a little. He pulls the sleeves of his hoodie down over his bandages and eats his lunch, doing his best to pay attention to the rest of the pack's conversations around him.

*

On Tuesday, he drops three different vials in Chemistry, can barely make it up the stairs without crawling, and the trembling that started in his hands has now spread to the rest of him.

Scott drags him into the bathroom between classes, frowning as Stiles leans against the wall and drops his backpack to the floor.

"You look like hell."

"Just a cold," Stiles says, grimacing. "I haven't been sick in ages, dude. This _sucks_."

"Are you sure it's not something else?" Scott asks. "Something, you know…"

He wiggles his eyebrows hilariously, and Stiles snorts, somehow managing to lean down and pick up his bag without falling over.

"I'm sure," he says, because he is. "This is probably the worst of it. I'll be fine by the end of the week."

"If you say so."

*

By Wednesday afternoon, he wants to crawl into bed and never get back out. Lacrosse practice starts in five minutes, but the closest he's come to gearing up is sitting on the bench in front of his locker and staring at it pathetically.

"Dude," Scott says, sitting next to him in his uniform. "You're like, ten times worse than you were yesterday. Go home, I'll explain to Coach."

"No, it's just a cold –"

"More like the flu or something," Isaac says, appearing on Stiles' other side and making him jump. He leans down and looks into Stiles' eyes. "You're definitely sicker than a cold would make you."

Stiles squints at him, because honestly, he's like one big blur. "I'm fine."

"What you are is disgusting." Jackson leans around the side of the lockers to scowl at them. "Go _home_ , Stilinski. Some of us – meaning you – aren't as lucky as others, and actually do get sick."

Stiles flips him off, but it's half-hearted at most. He stops protesting, though, and lets Scott pull him to his feet. "Sleep," he says, and Scott pats his shoulder, guiding him toward the locker room door.

"Yes, sleep. Leave your bag here; I'll bring it by your house after practice, okay?"

"'K," Stiles mumbles, and focuses every tiny bit of energy he has left on making it to his Jeep. 

When he finally collapses into the front seat, pulling the door shut behind him, he thinks he might die on the spot. He's struggling for every breath, his chest aching with the effort, and sweat is sliding down the side of his face. It takes him several minutes to catch his breath enough to fumble through his pockets and pull his keys out, and quite a few tries to just get the Jeep key in the ignition.

Fuck; there's no way he can drive like this. He searches through his pockets until he finds his phone, pulling it out and hitting Derek's speed dial.

Derek doesn't answer.

Stiles calls back, then again and again, but Derek never picks up. Something uneasy and _wrong_ settles at the pit of his stomach, and he tosses his phone onto the passenger seat before turning the key over and starting the engine. He knows he shouldn't even try to drive right now – his head is spinning and his vision is both blurry and double – but Derek never ignores so many calls in a row.

His tires squeal as he leaves the parking lot, automatically turning in the direction of Derek's home. The grip he has on his steering wheel is painful, the cuts on his hands still not fully healed, and he struggles to stay focused on the road. The edges of his vision are starting to darken, and pure panic has his heart racing and his stomach in knots. He fights it, breathing as deeply as he can, but the closer he gets to Derek's the harder it is to stay conscious.

He's almost there when the darkness bleeds over and his hands loosen on the wheel. He's already floating away when the Jeep hits something big and hard and unmoving, and he hears the crunch of metal and glass, the sudden, forceful stop sending him into the steering wheel and the rest of the way out.

*

Stiles wakes up very, very confused. His head is throbbing and he's cold, uncontrollable shivers wracking his body. He hurts all over and his mind is fuzzy, the headache not helping in the slightest. He takes a deep breath and tries to get his bearings; he's on a hard floor, and a mental check assures him that nothing's broken.

Except the Jeep. Oh god, the _Jeep_. His dad is going to actually kill him.

Stiles groans and tries to open his eyes. They're heavy, like they've suddenly turned into lead, and he has to struggle not to let himself slip back into unconsciousness. When he finally gets them open he has to blink several times to clear his vision, and even then there's still a blurriness to it that shouldn't be there.

He doesn't move, letting his eyes adjust to the dimness as he tries to figure out where he is. It looks like a single, empty room; the floor is covered in dirt and leaves, and the roof is mostly intact except for one caved-in spot in the corner. There's a tiny window on the far wall, the late-afternoon sun filtering through trees outside and casting shadows around something just beneath it.

It looks like a body, and Stiles feels his heart slam against his chest. He blinks a few times more, trying to focus, and sees a familiar leather jacket that makes his pounding heart stutter to a sudden stop. The t-shirt under the jacket is just as familiar, as are the dark jeans and the black boots, and when he finally looks up and sees Derek's face he stops breathing, everything around him falling away to nothing.

"No," Stiles whispers, struggling to push himself up. " _No_."

A booted foot appears out of nowhere and slams down on his hand. Stiles cries out, collapsing back to the floor on his stomach, eyes burning and panic threatening to overwhelm him. He can't look away from Derek, even long enough to see who is holding him down. He puts his other hand on the boot, pushing hard, his sneakers sliding on the floor as he fights to get free, but he just doesn't have enough strength.

"Shh, shh, it's okay," a woman's voice says from above, and fingers pat over his hair in a mockery of comfort. "He's alive. You know how that whole werewolf healing thing works."

Stiles chokes on a sob, forcing himself to drag his eyes up to the woman. "Who are you? What the fuck did you do to him?"

She smiles down at him, cold and sharp. "I think he's got the same sickness you do, sweetheart." She pauses, looking thoughtful. "Or maybe it was the way I hit him over the back of the head with that crowbar."

Stiles makes a horrified noise, eyes snapping back to where Derek is splayed under the window.

The woman sighs as though she's trying to explain something to a child. "Like I said, he'll be _fine_. At least for now." Her foot lifts from Stiles' hand but before he can move she's crouching down, and he gasps, feeling five sharp fingernails dig into the back of his neck, holding him in place. "As for who I am…well. My name is Lona, but that's not really what you're asking, is it? Maybe this will give you a clue."

She reaches into one of her boots and pulls out a tiny, clear bag, dropping it on the floor directly in front of Stiles' face. It's filled with a familiar shimmery red powder, and Stiles freezes, every muscle in his body tensing.

"She's dead," he chokes out, staring at the little bag.

Lona's fingers dig a little deeper. "Believe me, I'm aware," she says, voice gone flat and hard. "She was my sister, as was the other witch your little Alpha boyfriend ripped to pieces."

"He's not –" Stiles starts to say, and realizes how utterly stupid that sounds right now. "You're a witch, too."

"Nice deduction there," she says sarcastically, and Stiles feels a bubble of hysterical laughter lodge itself in his chest.

"So this is for revenge?"

Lona chuckles darkly. "Not quite. I can't deny I'll take pleasure in killing you both, but no. You see, this was the plan all along."

"The plan was for your sisters to die? That's a pretty fucking bad plan," Stiles can't help but bite out, and is rewarded with Lona's fingernails sinking in even further. He makes a pained noise, eyes beginning to sting, and stays very, very still.

"You think you're funny," she says, and Stiles can hear the fury in her voice. "Okay; I'll give you something to laugh at." She picks up the bag of powder and lets it swing directly in his face. "This stuff right here? It had an extra little charm worked in. When you and Mr. Werewolf over there had to fuck that first time to save your life, it didn't stop after that. It got into your skin, into your blood, and it made you hot for each other. I'm going to go out on a limb and say the two of you haven't been able to keep your hands – or anything else – to yourself since that first time."

Stiles' hands have started shaking, and he curls his fingers into the hard wood of the floor beneath him. She's lying, she has to be.

Lona chuckles softly, letting the bag fall back to the floor. "Yes, that's right. He never really wanted you; you were just a convenient way to get him here."

Stiles breathes slow and steady, chest tight. "I don't believe you."

"I don't much care if you believe me," she says easily. "But – and this is just a wild guess – you've had sex three times, now, right?"

He doesn't answer.

"That's what I thought. And that third time? That's what finished off the charm, what has made the two of you so sick, so _vulnerable_ – so easy to catch."

"That makes no sense," Stiles forces out, trying his best to stay calm. "Why would you do something so elaborate just to – to get to Derek. For what reason? Did the three of you have an actual death wish?"

"Come on, you're smarter than that," Lona taunts, shaking his neck a little and making him hiss. "Make the rest of your pack useless so we can get to just you and him, hit you both with the charmed powder, and then sit back and wait." Her voice gets harder when she continues, dropping low with anger. "We underestimated your Alpha's reaction the first time; my older sister's death at his hands was unexpected."

"Well that was stupid," Stiles mutters before he can stop himself, and then cries out when Lona uses her grip to pull him up and then slam his face onto the floor. Pain explodes across his cheeks and he feels blood gush from his nose; he groans, back bowing out as he tries to curl into himself.

"My younger sister was the stupid one, actually," she says casually, as though she hadn't just broken Stiles' nose. "Taking your pack mate wasn't part of the plan; she wanted an eye for an eye, and didn't have the patience to wait on the charm to work the rest of its magic. But don't worry, you'll both pay for her death, too."

Stiles spits out a mouthful of blood, pain radiating through his head. "You still haven't said why you've done all this – oh, wait, psychotic bitches don't need an excuse, right?"

Lona laughs, unperturbed. "Don't worry, darling, you'll find out soon."

And with that she finally slides her nails out of the back of Stiles' neck, patting the puncture wounds left behind before straightening to a stand. Stiles immediately scrambles away, twisting around until he's sitting up and facing her.

"I'd tell you not to bother trying to escape, but it would be cliché and pointless," she says. "This cabin is surrounded by Mountain Ash, and I know you won't leave your werewolf behind to try to go for help. If you did, he would be truly dead by the time you returned. And just in case you don't believe me…"

She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small black pouch, opening it and pouring the familiar powder in a thick line on the floor directly in front of the door. She smiles at him and closes the pouch, sliding it back into her pocket.

"Fuck you," Stiles says, and hates the way his voice breaks.

She looks amused, and glances at where Derek's lying. "I'd take you up on that offer, but I'm not interested in unwanted sloppy seconds."

Stiles curls his fingernails into his palms, focusing on the sting where they dig into his cuts. Lona's smile grows, evil and twisted, and he meets her gaze defiantly.

"Don't worry," she says. "The last of the charm will wear off soon and your werewolf will heal. Then the real fun can begin."

He doesn't respond, and she gives him a wink before whirling around and disappearing through the only door. When she's finally gone Stiles gasps in a breath, struggling to fill his lungs past the crushing weight on his chest. His stomach rolls, and he barely makes it to the corner before losing it, vomiting up what little he's eaten before it turns to dry heaves that make his sides hurt.

When it's finally over he wipes his mouth on the sleeve of his hoodie and crawls over to where Derek is still unconscious, sitting next to his head and leaning his back against the wall. He reaches over and places one hand on Derek's chest, holding his own breath until he feels the shallow rise and fall of Derek breathing and the faint but steady beat of his heart.

None of it had been real – none of Derek's seductive teasing and soft kisses and fucking _cuddling_ , not a single goddamned bit of it had meant anything. Stiles had begun to think that maybe he had a chance, maybe he could eventually convince Derek to move beyond just the hot sex to something more like an actual relationship.

He'd begun to hope.

God, he was so _stupid_. Of course Derek wouldn't really want him.

"Nobody ever wants Stiles," he whispers, and the thought has never hurt more than it does now.

*

"Stiles. Stiles, wake up."

He groans, pushing weakly at the hand shaking his shoulder. He blinks his eyes open to darkness, moonlight falling over him, and his hip is cold where he'd been pressed against Derek's head, which means – 

He focuses on the dark shape crouched in front of him and sees Derek, looking agitated. A breath catches in his throat, eyes automatically scanning Derek's body for any unhealed injuries.

"Where the hell are we?" Derek says, scowling fiercely.

"A cabin in the woods," Stiles says flatly. "Which not only happens to be surrounded by Mountain Ash, but the only door is blocked by it as well. Not that I could have possibly dragged your unconscious ass out of here anyway."

"So why didn't _you_ leave?" Derek snaps, glare sharpening. "You know, gone for help?"

Stiles glares back. "Because the bitch would have killed you, that's why. No, shut up, you were out cold. You couldn't have possibly defended yourself. I have no idea how far out we are or which direction I'd have to go in to even find someone who _could_ help. So stop looking at me like this is all my fault, because there's not a goddamned thing I could've done."

 

Derek's scowl deepens and he looks away, something like guilt flashing across his face. "I know it's not your fault. What I don't know is whose fault it _is_."

Stiles laughs, and it sounds hollow and empty. "It's a long fucking story."

"So explain," Derek says through clenched teeth. "So we can start working on a way to get the fuck out of here."

Stiles' stomach clenches and he swallows, hoping he doesn't get sick again. "The red powder that first witch threw at us had an additional charm in it that we didn't know about. It's the reason you've been all over me lately – " Derek freezes, giving him an incredulous look, and Stiles has to close his eyes to keep going, " – and that last time is why I've been so sick the past few days."

"I was sick too," Derek says, and it sounds like an automatic response, blank and empty. "I've never been sick before."

"It was to make us both weak," Stiles continues, trying to keep his voice steady. "There were three witches, all sisters, and the third is the one who's trapped us here. She – she hit you in the back of the head with a crowbar."

"I remember," Derek says darkly, and Stiles finally opens his eyes to look at him. "I was so weak I couldn't fight her off." He shoots a look at Stiles, frowning. "How did you get here? Did she hit you too?"

He leans in closer, fingers gently prodding at the back of Stiles' skull.

"I'm fine," Stiles snaps, shoving his hands away. Derek looks startled, and then he sits back, face going blank, and Stiles has to clench his hands into fists to keep from reaching for him. "I felt so bad at school I skipped out on lacrosse practice. I tried to call you to come get me because I didn't think I should drive, but you didn't answer. I wrecked the Jeep on the way to your house, and woke up here."

He doesn't mention the way he saw Derek's body lying still and lifeless on the floor, or the way terror had made him go cold all over, panic pushing down on his lungs until he had to struggle to breathe.

"And the witch was here, too?" Derek asks, and Stiles nods. "She's the one who told you –"

"That everything that's happened is because of that fucking powder and you don't actually want me?" Stiles finishes bitterly. "Yeah."

"And you believed her?"

Stiles breathes deep, staring at the ceiling. "You can't deny that it makes sense."

Derek is silent, and Stiles tries not to flinch when he moves to sit on the floor beside him.

"Maybe you're right," Derek says after another moment, quiet. "Maybe me giving in and risking everything to be with a seventeen year old is caused by nothing more than some magical red powder."

Stiles' heart drops, and he suddenly feels cold all over. He swallows, throat clicking dryly, and struggles to draw in a breath.

"Let me ask you something," Derek says after another minute. "I never forced you into anything, so do you believe that _you_ sleeping with _me_ was because of the charm?"

Fuck.

"Yes," Stiles says, and knows Derek will know he's lying.

"Stiles –"

"Don't," Stiles says harshly, closing his eyes. "Just…don't."

Derek falls silent, and they sit there in the dark and cold.

"We can't just do nothing," Derek says eventually. "I can't get out the door but these walls are thin; I can probably break through one of them."

"Have at it," Stiles says, waving at the far wall. "But that won't help us get past the Mountain Ash on the outside."

Derek climbs to his feet, flexing his hands as he stares at the wall. "She was probably lying."

"Right," Stiles bites out. "Because the silly little human who can't hear heartbeats is just that gullible."

Derek's jaw goes tight and he glares down at Stiles. "Because she was playing with your emotions."

Stiles shakes his head, pushing to his feet and wincing at the ache of what feels like every muscle in his body. "Go on," he says, waving at the wall again. "Not like we have anything to lose at this point."

Derek scowls at him again but doesn't say anything else, turning back to the wall and pausing for just a second before running full tilt at it. He crashes through and Stiles flinches, because werewolf strength or not that had to hurt. He walks over to the large hole where wall used to be and peeks out; Derek is brushing off his jacket, covered from head to foot in dust and little bits of wood.

"Let's go," he says, and Stiles steps through to follow him.

They make it ten feet before Derek suddenly weaves and stumbles back, cursing. Stiles looks down and sees a smooth line of Mountain Ash, disappearing through the trees on both sides of them.

"I feel seriously vindicated right now," he says.

Derek narrows his eyes. "Can you break it?" he asks shortly, hands clenching into fists.

Stiles doesn't answer, crouching down in front of the dark line. He holds his hands over it, like he did before, and tries to separate it. Nothing happens, so he does the next best thing and sweeps his hand through it – or tries to. It doesn't budge.

"Nope," he finally says, standing. "That's some solid magic right there."

"Fine," Derek says, and grabs him by the back of his hoodie. Stiles makes a noise of protest, but Derek is too strong and too fast and has sent him stumbling over the line before he can even begin to fight.

"What the hell, dude," Stiles says angrily once he's found his balance, straightening his clothes.

"You need to go find help," Derek says. "I'm not unconscious anymore; I can defend myself. Find the others if you can, they're the only ones who can –"

"No," Stiles snaps, and then again when Derek starts to protest, " _No_. You're not getting rid of me that easily. We stick together, you asshole."

"Stiles, we don't have time for this," Derek says, low and strained. "You need to go. Now."

"Too late," a familiar voice says, and Lona steps out of the shadows of the trees. She's got a large gun in her hand, and it's pointing at Stiles.

Stiles tenses, stumbling back several steps.

"Stiles, get behind me," Derek says, but before Stiles can even begin to move Lona pulls the trigger.

There's a sharp stab in Stiles' right shoulder and he jerks back, blinking. Derek is yelling at him and Lona in turns, snarls and growls and his eyes going red and canines sharpening, but it all comes at Stiles in a vague, fuzzy sort of way. He looks down and instead of seeing blood and a bullet hole, he sees a large needle sticking out from his shoulder.

"Oh," he says. "Fuck."

His legs give out and he tumbles to the ground, darkness closing in on him once again.

*

Stiles wakes slowly, head throbbing. He's groggy and disoriented and his shoulder hurts like a motherfucker.

"Fuck," he groans, struggling to remember why he feels the way he does.

"Look who's awake," a female voice says, and she sounds familiar in a terrifying sort of way.

Stiles freezes, memories flooding back, and he struggles to open his eyes and sit up. "Where's Derek?" he slurs, digging his fingers into dirt as a wave of dizziness hits him and he sways.

"Don't worry," Lona croons, sliding the back of her hand down his face. "You'll get to see him in just a few minutes."

Stiles jerks away, giving her an unfocused glare. "What the fuck did you do?"

"To you?" she asks. "Just a little tranquilizer; you'll be fine before the game begins. Had to get your wolf to be agreeable somehow, didn't I?"

"Game," Stiles repeats. He blinks, his vision starting to clear and the throbbing in his head growing weaker. "What game?"

Lona laughs delightedly. "Did I happen to mention that I'm only half witch?"

"So the fuck what?" Stiles says. "You're all the way crazy, so –"

"My mother was a witch," she continues as though he hadn't spoken. The smile she gives him is wide and triumphant, a hard glint in her eyes that makes Stiles shiver with dread. "My father, on the other hand, was a hunter."

Oh _fuck_.

"Oh fuck," Stiles says.

Lona's smile widens even further, making her look as demented as she actually is. "Take a look around. Tell me what you see."

Stiles looks. It's still night and they're outside, in a huge clearing surrounded by trees; the two of them are in some sort of cage, which is connected to a larger – much, _much_ larger – fenced off area. Bars of tall, heavy iron surround the space, and there are dark places in the dirt that Stiles is pretty sure are dried blood. He stands, slow and unsteady, and curls his hand around one of the bars between the cage and the bigger space.

"What is this?" he asks, a sudden spike of fear twisting through his stomach.

"Can't you tell?" Lona practically purrs. "It's an arena, and we've got the prime seats. Pretty soon your Alpha will be out there with one of my best pets, fighting to claim the winner's prize." She leans in and whispers against his ear. "You."

Stiles thinks he might throw up. "If Derek loses –"

"You'll go to my pet. He's never had a human before, and he's quite excited about the prospect. Very enthusiastic to get this fight started."

"And if Derek wins?"

Lona laughs, as though that's not even an option. "In that very unlikely case, you'll go back to your wolf and he will become one of my pets."

"So either way I'm not leaving," Stiles says flatly, and Lona pats his head.

"Don't worry, it's not so bad. You'll get food and water and a good fuck every night."

Stiles jerks away, clenching his teeth together. "Your 'pet'," he says, forcing the words out. "I'm assuming he's another werewolf?"

"Oh yes, they all are," Lona says. "Caught and restrained with a combination of magic and hunter knowledge. A way to honor both my parents, if you will."

"You're sick," Stiles chokes out.

Lona shrugs. "I prefer to think of it as ingenious. Now hush; it's time to get this round started."

She opens her mouth and lets out a shrill bird call. Stiles winces, but in the moment that follows he can hear cheers going up from the trees. He sucks in a breath, tensing, and watches as various supernatural creatures – some human looking, some definitely not – flood into the clearing and surround the arena. They're laughing and wild, many of them pointing and staring at him.

Lona repeats the bird call and the audience falls quiet. She smiles around at them, and Stiles shudders, swallowing back the bile that rises in his throat.

"Bring out the wolves!" she suddenly shouts, and the cheering and yelling start up again, louder than before.

The crowd shuffles around, parting like water, and a gate on the far end opens just enough for a body to be shoved through before slamming shut again. It's Derek, and Stiles wants to scream at him to get away, jump the top of the barred fence and escape, but the words catch in his throat, choking him.

Derek pushes up from where he's landed in the dirt, slow to climb to his feet, and as he lifts his head and looks directly at Stiles, the black and silver collar around his neck becomes visible.

"What the hell is that?" Stiles asks, unable to tear his eyes away.

"Just a little something to keep him in line," Lona says, sounding gleeful. "It's got a touch of wolfsbane woven in; enough to stop him from getting too strong, but not enough to weaken him so much he can't fight. What would the fun be in that?"

Stiles is shaking, fury and fear and pure _hate_ making his blood run hot through his veins, his heart pounding in his ears. Derek is still staring at him, his expression indecipherable, and Stiles leans his forehead against the bars in front of him, desperately trying not to cry.

Another gate suddenly opens and a man – werewolf – walks in, arrogant leer on his face as the crowd cheers for him. He's huge, bigger even than Derek, and he's wearing nothing but a worn pair of jeans. He flexes a little, clearly showing off, and as he turns he catches sight of Stiles. His smirk grows, turns nasty, and he saunters over, stopping just in front of where Stiles has reared back.

"So you're going to be my prize, huh?" he says, and the rough, torn quality of his voice makes Stiles shudder in disgust. "My very own human to play with. I'm going to mark you up real good – hold you down and fuck that pretty little ass until you break. Maybe I'll even give you the bite, make you my little bitch –"

Something hits him hard from the side, and Stiles has just enough time to realize it's Derek before they're rolling away in the dirt, violent growls and snarls barely audible over the din of the crowd. Stiles feels utterly helpless, more than he ever has before; all he can do is watch, hands shaking as they cling to the bars. His eyes never leave the two of them, dust billowing through the moonlight as they slam each other into the ground over and over.

"Isn't this exciting?" Lona says from beside him, and Stiles wants to punch her so much it physically hurts not to. It would probably make things ten times worse if he did, though he's hard pressed to think of how that could be possible.

"Why Derek?" Stiles asks.

"Do you mean why an Alpha? Because they're more fun. Your betas are still too young, too weak." She smiles. "And without their Alpha, they'll be even weaker, and far easier to catch and train."

 _You don't know our betas_ , he thinks, but bites down on his tongue to keep the words in. 

Stiles sees a quick flash of claws, and a split second later Lona's pet roars in pain, four bloody marks slicing down his back, and then Derek is flying through the air, back hitting the iron bars before he falls to the ground, curling in on himself.

"Derek!" Stiles cries, panic pressing down on his chest and making it hard to breathe.

Lona cackles beside him as her werewolf advances, slower than before and looking a cross between smug and angry. Derek coughs, struggling to get to his feet, and shakes his head as though to clear it. The other wolf takes off, running straight for him, and Derek jumps out of the way just in time. He twists around, hand coming down hard on the back of the man's head, slamming his face into the iron bars.

Lona's wolf lets out another loud snarl, nose gushing blood for a second, and then he's wolfing out, coming at Derek with red eyes and fangs bared. Derek shifts too, and jumps high at the last minute, landing on the wolf's back and kicking out with his legs, forcing him to go sprawling and sliding through the dirt.

"Come on," Lona yells, making Stiles jump. "You're being pathetic; quit fucking around and show him what you're made of, you piece of shit."

The wolf climbs to his feet, eyes on Derek and mouth curling dangerously around his fangs. They circle each other for a minute, growling and snarling and snapping, and then they're running at each other. Stiles winces as Derek is slammed into the ground, and then watches in horror as the huge wolf pounds his fists into Derek's face over and over again. Derek fights back as best he can, claws scratching at the wolf's face and torso, but he can't move otherwise.

The crowd is yelling and shouting and jeering them on, and Lona is watching with a dark smile on her face. Stiles can't breathe; there's blood _everywhere_ and Derek's movements are getting weaker and shakier and he can't –

– he can't just stand there and do nothing, he has to – to find a way to help, to save Derek and save himself but he's locked in this _fucking_ cage and he can't breathe –

Stiles fights the panic, lets the rage steady him, steady his thoughts, and he glances quickly at Lona. She's not paying him any attention, focused completely on the fight, and Stiles takes a step back, looking around at the ground of the cage. There's nothing there but dirt and for a moment the panic takes over, but then he looks a little further, just outside the bars and there –

It's a rock, small enough for him to fit in his hand and pull through the bars but big and heavy-looking enough to do some damage. He glances at Lona again, edging toward the back of the cage. Derek is still fighting, he hasn't given up yet, but it looks like one of his arms is broken, and Stiles chokes back a sob. He crouches down and slowly – slowly reaches through the bars, shooting quick looks back and forth between the rock and Lona.

It's just out of reach. Stiles bites down hard on his bottom lip, tears of frustration and desperation and complete, utter fear filling his eyes. He blinks them back, breathing slow and deep, and carefully flattens himself on the ground, stretching his arm through the bars until he thinks he might dislocate his shoulder. His fingers brush over the rock and he closes his eyes, struggling, making himself push just a little farther.

His hand closes over the rock and he lets out an involuntary sound of relief.

Fuck.

He opens his eyes just in time to see Lona spinning around, expression contorting into one of fury. She comes at him with a yell of fury, but it's too late, he's got the rock and he's not letting go. He pulls his arm back through the cage bars and swings upward, slamming the rock across her face and sending her stumbling over and onto the ground.

Her hand flies up and she howls in pain, blood leaking through her fingers. Stiles rolls away and pushes to his feet, clutching the rock tightly as Lona screams in rage. She leaps up and runs at him, and Stiles is done sitting back and watching as shit happens around him and Derek fucking _dies_. He meets her halfway across the cage and slams the rock into her face again, knocking her off balance.

Lona stumbles and falls, eyes going unfocused, and Stiles doesn't let himself think about what he's doing. Instead, he thinks about Derek in that arena, fighting for his life and for Stiles'. He thinks about Isaac being taken by the other witch and he thinks about the red powder and how he should have had a _choice_ , goddamn it, no matter how much he loves Derek.

The rock comes down again and again, the bones in her face and skull crunching under the force, blood splattering everywhere.

When he's positive she's dead – when Lona goes still under him and her eyes stare at nothing – he drops the rock and scrambles away, a sob escaping as he tries not to hyperventilate.

A sudden anguished roar comes from the arena and Stiles snaps his head around, seeing Lona's wolf staring at them. Derek is still beneath him, and he's bloody as hell but he's still moving, twisting away.

The other wolf seems to have forgotten Derek's there, and Stiles watches as he roars again, shifting into full Alpha form. He runs straight at the cage, mouth open in a wild snarl, and Stiles instinctively pushes himself into the back wall of bars, shoes sliding through the dirt and blood as his body tries to get as far away as possible.

The wolf leaps, aiming for the top of the high bars, and then yelps as he falls back into the arena, an arrow lodged into his heart. Stiles stares, completely dumbfounded, but then Derek is up and on the wolf, claws slicing clean through his throat and blood spurting onto the ground.

"Stiles! _Stiles_!"

He blinks, looks around, and sees Scott running towards him. Scott, which means the rest of the pack must be here, and the arrow must have been Allison's.

"Are you okay?" Scott asks when he reaches the cage, eyes dark with worry as he scans Stiles from head to foot.

"I'll survive," Stiles says. "Please just get us out of here."

Scott nods and then everything falls into chaos. Someone has opened one of the gates leading into the arena and Derek is no longer in there. The collar, however, is lying on the ground, ripped in two. The crowd's yells have changed to ones of fear, many of them running as an angry pack of werewolves starts to tear through them. Others stay and fight but they don't last long.

Stiles can't do anything but watch, still locked inside the cage with Lona's dead body. He doesn't look at it but he can smell the blood, and he swallows as his empty stomach rolls. Outside the cage he can see flashes of his pack, Erica's blonde hair or Derek's leather jacket, and he's so relieved that Derek is alive he can't bring himself to care that he's not out there fighting with them.

Eventually, it all ends. The last few stragglers run for the woods, stumbling over the bodies of their comrades as they make their desperate escapes. Stiles uses the bars of the cage to pull himself up, eyes scanning the clearing as he searches out everyone, making sure they're all alive.

Jackson is nearby with Lydia, checking bodies to make sure they're either dead or in need of help, Stiles isn't sure. Scott is helping Allison collect her arrows, and Erica and Isaac are tending to a slightly injured Boyd. Derek –

"Derek?" Stiles whispers, heart stopping as he scans the clearing again, panic threatening to close his throat.

"I'm right here," Derek says from behind him, and Stiles spins around, clinging to the bars to keep himself from literally collapsing in relief.

"Jesus Christ," Stiles breathes, taking him in. There's blood drying on his face, his white shirt torn to pieces and now rust colored, and there's even a large rip in the shoulder of his jacket. Most of his weight is settled on his right leg, and his left arm is held close to his side, oddly angled and obviously not quite healed.

"Are you hurt?" Derek asks, and Stiles shakes his head.

"Aside from a broken nose, the holes in the back of my neck, several other cuts and abrasions, and a lingering concussion, I'm physically fine," he says, and then continues seriously, "Pretty sure I'll have nightmares for the rest of my life, though."

Derek's mouth thins, and he reaches up with his good hand to grab the padlock Stiles hadn't even noticed until that moment. He yanks hard and it breaks off, the door to the cage swinging open.

"Oh, thank god," Stiles says, stumbling out as fast as his shaky legs can carry him. Derek catches his arm, helping him get steady, and doesn't let go even when Stiles looks up at him.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Derek asks, and Stiles swallows.

"Yeah," he says quietly, nodding once. "I'll be fine."

Derek continues to stare at him, and Stiles stares back.

"Stiles, I –"

"We've checked all the bodies," Jackson says as he and Lydia suddenly appear. "Anybody who survived is long gone."

Derek's hand briefly tightens on Stiles' arm before he lets go, turning away and making Stiles suddenly feel alone and empty. He glances over and sees Scott and Allison walking towards them, Erica, Isaac, and Boyd not far behind.

"What now?" Scott asks.

"Go home," Derek orders. "There's no way we can take care of this many bodies. I don't even think we're in our territory anymore."

"We're not," Jackson says. "We're about fifty miles north."

"Out of Argent territory, too," Allison adds.

"Then there's nothing more we can do," Derek says. "We just need to go home and lay low until we've all healed. Nobody has to know we were here."

"Uh, hello?" Stiles says, waving a hand. "Injured human without super awesome healing powers here. I can't exactly go home and lay low."

"No, you really can't," Scott agrees, sounding apologetic. "Your dad is frantic, dude; they found your Jeep but not you, and he's got every able bodied person out there looking for you right now."

Stiles groans. "Shit."

"Who drove?" Derek asks, and Scott and Jackson both raise their hands. "Okay, let's go. We'll get everybody home and then Scott can drive Stiles to the hospital. We'll think of something not supernatural related on the way."

Stiles doesn't argue, trailing behind the rest as they lead the way to where their cars are hidden.

*

In the end, the easiest explanation is also the most believably obvious – Stiles was sick, passed out, wrecked the Jeep, and when he came to he was so confused he wandered off and got lost. There's a lot of room for questions and doubt, but his dad just nods and pulls him into a hug so tight Stiles thinks he might not ever let go.

*

He stays Thursday and Friday in the hospital just for observation, and then holes up in his room for the weekend. Scott drops by once to make sure he's really okay, and surprisingly Lydia calls him, and unsurprisingly everyone else except Jackson texts him at least once.

He doesn't hear a single thing from Derek.

*

Monday sees him back at school, and he does his best to act normal. If he's a little quieter, a little less sarcastic, the others don't comment.

*

Two weeks go by. Then three.

His injuries heal and he gets his Jeep back from the shop.

It's like Derek has dropped off the face of the earth, and Stiles thinks it must be nice to just forget.

*

He waits another week, and then he wonders what the fuck he's waiting for. Derek might be able to just pretend it never happened, but Stiles can't do that. Even if it hurts, he's got to hear Derek say it, he needs to hear Derek tell him it was just the magic and that it's never going to happen again.

He leaves his dad a note just in case he gets home early, then jumps in his Jeep and drives to Derek's. He goes slow and careful, hands gripping the wheel just a little tighter as he passes the tree he hit. When he pulls up in Derek's yard Stiles is unsurprised to see him waiting outside, leaning against the hood of the Camaro. His expression is pinched, his arms are crossed defensively, and he doesn't move when Stiles parks directly in front of him and kills the engine. Stiles just stares at him for a few minutes, heart pounding nervously. Finally, he takes a deep breath and steps out, shoving his hands deep into his jacket pockets.

"Hi," Stiles says, walking until he reaches the front of his Jeep and then stopping, unable to bring himself closer.

"Hi," Derek says.

A truly awkward silence falls, and Stiles fidgets. He opens his mouth several times only to snap it shut again, for once at a complete loss of words. Derek waits, looking like he would rather be anywhere else, and Stiles huffs in irritation at himself, at Derek, at this entire fucked up situation.

"Okay, look," Stiles finally says. "I just – I just need to know if –" 

He breaks off, struggling to find the right words.

"You need to know if it really was all because of the magic," Derek finishes for him, quiet.

Stiles swallows and fixes his gaze on a far tree, nodding shortly. "I just need to – to hear you say it. And then I'll leave you alone, I swear. Despite my long and painful history of unrequited love, I do actually know how to step back and take a hint."

Derek draws in a sharp breath and stares at Stiles, wide eyes scanning his face as though seeing him for the first time. Finally, after a painfully long silence, he answers.

"No."

Surprised, Stiles shifts his gaze to Derek's. "What? What do you mean, 'no'?"

"I mean," Derek says, and oh, okay, he's in Stiles' personal space, that's – "No. I'm not going to say it. No, it wasn't all because of the magic. _No_ , your feelings are not unrequited."

Stiles is, to put it simply, completely and utterly flabbergasted. "I don't understand. I got sick, _you_ got sick. The charm made us –"

"Stop." Derek shakes his head, leaning his arms on either side of Stiles, boxing him in against the hood of the Jeep. His eyes are dark, expression pained, and his frown has twisted into something unhappy. "I won't deny that the charm probably did affect me –"

The hope that had risen in Stiles' chest plummets again, and he scowls. "Goddamn it, Derek, don't fucking do that."

"I'm not finished," Derek snaps, and straightens, taking a visible breath. "It affected me because I didn't want to take advantage of you but I did anyway. You needed time and I was willing to wait. I _was_ waiting, until you were old enough, until you knew for sure what you wanted. I'm pissed off that the choice was taken from both of us, from _you_ , but Stiles, I didn't do anything I didn't already want to do."

Stiles stares, jaw hanging open. "So you – you wanted –"

"You," Derek says. "I still do, if you haven't changed your mind."

"Changed my –" Stiles starts, and then makes an annoyed sound and reaches for Derek, gripping his shirt and pulling him into a hard kiss.

Derek makes a noise, and Stiles thinks it maybe sounds like relief. He parts his lips, letting Derek slide his tongue in and deepen the kiss, letting Derek claim his mouth. He can't believe this is happening, can't believe that Derek actually wants him – 

Derek nips at Stiles' bottom lip and then sucks it into his mouth, making Stiles groan. Stiles arches his back, pressing himself against Derek, feeling his erection through their jeans.

"I want to fuck you," Derek mumbles, releasing Stiles' lip and then staring at it like he wants it back. "I haven't fucked you since that first time, and I want to right now."

"Oh my god, yes," Stiles breathes, hard dick twitching. "Yes, yes, _please_ –"

Derek growls and kisses him again, spinning them around and pushing until Stiles stumbles and his ass lands on the hood of the Camaro. Oh god, he's going to get fucked on Derek's sexy as hell car. The thought makes him groan loudly and he leans back, dragging Derek with him. He wraps his legs around Derek's waist, hands scrabbling at his t-shirt until Derek pulls back just enough to pull it over his head and drop it to the ground. Stiles immediately pulls him back into the kiss, Derek's mouth against his hot and wet and perfect.

The air is chilly but Derek doesn't seem to mind, Stiles' hands sliding over bare skin, tracing the tattoo on his back. He's rocking his hips into Stiles' but the angle is wrong and there's too many layers still between them. Derek makes a frustrated noise and breaks away, straightening and pulling Stiles up.

"Wait, no, don't stop, why are you stopping," Stiles says, dragging in deep breaths.

Derek grins and pushes Stiles' jacket off, and then he's reaching for Stiles' fly. "Can't fuck you with clothes on."

"Right," Stiles breathes, and starts fumbling with the button on Derek's jeans, hand brushing against his hard dick.

Derek groans, hips hitching, and Stiles bites down on his bottom lip as Derek's hand slides into his boxers and wraps around his dick. He gasps, giving up on Derek's jeans, and places his hands on the Camaro, head falling back and hips bucking. Derek leans in and starts mouthing at Stiles' neck, hot and wet, teeth dragging along skin. His jeans and boxers fall down his legs to pool at his ankles, Derek's hand sliding along his dick, spreading the precome gathering at the tip.

"I love when you're like this," Derek says in between biting a line of kisses along his collarbone. "So hard for me, so good."

Stiles whimpers, pushing himself through Derek's fist, and Derek squeezes him harder, twisting his wrist. "Oh my god, I'm going to come –"

Derek lets go, and Stiles chokes, whining in protest.

"You're going to come on my dick," Derek says, and reaches to finish undoing his fly.

Stiles drags in a breath, shaking as he tries to reign himself in. Derek is pushing his clothes down, dick big and hard as he palms it, and something occurs to Stiles.

"Wait. We need something – lube –"

Derek pauses, frowning slightly, and then a wicked expression crosses his face. He grabs Stiles' elbow and pulls him up, only to spin him around and push him face down onto the hood of the Camaro. Stiles grunts, and for a split second he's taken back to the cabin and Lona holding him down on the floor, and he tenses. Derek must feel it because his hand curls gently around Stiles' hip.

"Are you okay?"

Stiles closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, reminding himself that this is Derek and Derek won't hurt him. He relaxes and opens his eyes, looking back over his shoulder.

"Yeah," he says, and then more firmly, "Yes. I'm okay, just please don't stop."

It's not a lie, and Derek nods after a second, some of the wickedness returning in the form of a smirk. "Don't move," he says, and Stiles licks his lips, nodding.

Derek leans over him and kisses the back of his neck, open and wet, hands pushing Stiles' t-shirt up around his ribs. Derek moves down, placing another hot kiss to the small of his back, making Stiles groan and squirm, dick trapped between his stomach and the Camaro. Derek huffs lightly, and Stiles hears the crunch of leaves as he – drops to his knees?

Oh, god.

Stiles' breath catches in his throat and he holds as still as possible, not daring to hope. He feels Derek's hands kneed his ass, pulling the cheeks apart, and he lets his forehead fall against the Camaro's hood. Warm breath brushes over his hole and he groans, long and low, shuffling his feet as he spreads his legs as far as they'll go with his pants still around his ankles.

"Stop teasing me, oh my god," he says, and Derek chuckles.

"How do you even know what I'm going to do?"

"Porn," Stiles says. "Internet porn. Very informative. Derek, please –"

Derek bites lightly at Stiles' ass and then drags his tongue right over his hole. A strangled noise is torn from Stiles' throat, hips stuttering, and he barely has time to take a breath before Derek's tongue is on him again. Derek doesn't hold back, firm little licks tracing Stiles' hole, dipping inside, teeth scraping against sensitive skin. Hot sparks of pleasure pool at the base of Stiles' spine and he feels like he's been punched in the solar plexus. He's whining desperately and his dick is so hard it hurts, a throbbing ache that makes him rock against the Camaro.

Derek's fingers dig into his ass cheeks and he growls warningly, making Stiles curl his hands into fists as he forces himself to stop moving. His legs are trembling, balls high and tight, and he has to bite down on his fist to keep himself from crying out. Derek doesn't stop, pushing his tongue in deeper, his spit making Stiles wet and slick. He lets go of Stiles' ass with one hand and then a finger is sliding in beside his tongue.

Stiles gasps, arching back, pushing into the combination. It's good, so fucking good, and Derek groans as he adds a second finger. He twists them around, stretching Stiles open and licking in between, pumping his fingers in and out around his tongue.

"F-fuck," Stiles gasps when he feels a third finger, eyes rolling back. Derek pulls his mouth away, pushing his fingers in deep, all the way to the knuckle, and a broken groan is wrenched from Stiles' chest.

"God," Derek breathes. "I bet you could come from my fingers alone. You could, couldn't you? I could just fuck you with my fingers until you were such a mess you couldn't remember your own name. Maybe three would be enough, but I think I could fit four, stretch you out wide –"

"Oh god, oh god," Stiles says, hands scrabbling on the Camaro. "Derek – Derek, please –"

Derek groans and slides his fingers out, leaving Stiles feeling empty. His hands slide up Stiles' ass to his hips as he mouths his way up his spine. He settles his body over Stiles', hands splayed wide around his waist, dick pressing against his hole. Stiles whimpers, pushing back, wanting Derek inside of him _now_ –

Derek pushes in, past the tight outer ring, hitching little movements that take him deeper each time. Stiles groans, turning his head to press his cheek to the Camaro's hood. It burns but it isn't as bad as the first time, and he just breathes until Derek is buried balls deep, hips pressing against his ass. He feels split open, stuffed full; Derek's dick is stretching him wide and it's _so fucking good_.

Derek starts to move, rolling his hips, and Stiles braces his hands against the Camaro. Each push in is harder than the last, until the air is being punched from Stiles' lungs, and his lips part as he gasps. Derek's fingers dig into Stiles' hips, a bruising force holding him still, dick pounding into him over and over. He barely realizes he's moving – being fucked so hard he's sliding up the hood – until his feet slip out from under him and he lands hard on the car.

Derek groans and moves his grip from Stiles' hips to his hands. He tangles their fingers together and presses his body over Stiles' again, driving into him. The angle changes and Derek's dick drags over his prostate, making Stiles cry out, dropping his forehead onto the Camaro. Derek growls low and dark, thrusting even harder, and Stiles starts to shake at the constant waves of pleasure. He's completely pinned, his toes barely touching the ground, his aching dick trapped against the metal beneath him.

"Please, please, please," Stiles begs, voice choked. "I'm so close, Derek please –"

Derek leans down and presses blunt teeth to Stiles' neck, biting down hard, and Stiles comes with a shout. His whole body jerks, dick pulsing out onto the car, and Derek doesn't let go as he pushes in and holds, grinding his hips against Stiles' ass as he comes.

They stay that way for a few minutes, and Stiles is glad because he thinks he might float away if Derek moves. Eventually, though, he does, licking lightly at the place where he bit Stiles before slowly pushing himself up and pulling out. Stiles realizes a second too late that he has nothing holding him up now, and slides down the Camaro's hood, shaky legs failing him. He lands on his bare ass on the cold ground, and blinks in surprise before beginning to laugh.

"Oh my god," he wheezes. "We are _so_ doing that again."

Derek holds out his hand and helps Stiles up, looking smugly satisfied as he has to hold him steady. When Stiles finally finds his balance he reaches down and pulls his boxers and jeans up, buttoning them with trembling fingers.

"We are doing that many, many times," Derek says, adjusting his own clothes. "On my car, in my car, in my bed, against the kitchen counter –"

Stiles kisses him, a firm press of their lips, licking into Derek's mouth for just a second before pulling away. He looks Derek straight in the eyes and hopes he doesn't ruin everything with his next question.

"So is this just a sex thing? Or is it maybe a relationship thing?"

Derek lifts both hands and cups Stiles' jaw, pulling him into another soft kiss. "It's a you and me thing," he says.

And, well, Stiles thinks that sounds kind of perfect.


End file.
